Weird Tales v08 n05 [1926-11]

NOVEMBER, 1926 WEIRD TALES ft u?s.A. ln Vol. VIII, No. 5 — 25c

Weird Tales

Vhe Unioue Magazine

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B.WaLLIS v

RANTHONY
OSCAR COOK
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MARLA MORAVSKY 1
VICTOR ROUSSEAU
EDMOND HAMILTON
ROBERT EMMETT LEWIS
FRAN K BEIKNAP LONG JR;

HERE THEY ARE

1 The Valley of Missing: Men-
Read how Parkinson discovered
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sating with hair-raising incident

2 BufT—A cub reporter and
death mystery—a story th;
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WEIRD TALES

Eery Shivers!

T ALES that thrill and amaze, uncanny stories that send cold shivers up
the spine, tales of the kind that made the fame of Poe—on such stories
has been built the brilliant success of WEIRD TALES. Added to these are
fascinating weird-scientific stories such as “The Star Shell” and “Across
Space” in this issue—tales of voyages to other planets, tales of the marvelous
science of the future, imaginative tales that plumb the future with the eye
of prophecy. Among the many noteworthy stories in the nest few issues
will be:

)K, by H. P. Lovecraft

‘aijrKTlSrWS Democritus!* '

THE ATOMIC CONQUERORS, by Edmond Hamilton

Up from an infra-universe concealed in a grain of sand came these terrible

.KW y-tssr SU**"”

beings, pouring o

THE MALIGNANT PEARL,

doomed breast of

as H. Griffiths

Martin Leahy

Robert E. Howard

THE LOST RACE,

The author of “W.
Piets—that uncanny’.

THE HEAD, by Bassett 1 _

A weird^and^terrible tale of surgery a

THE LAST HORROR, by Eli Colter

L tale of weird

T HESE are but a few of the many super-excellent stories in store for
the readers of WEIRD TALES. To make sure of getting your copy each '
month, just pin a dollar bill to this coupon.

r void unless remittance is accompanied

Contents for November , 1926

Cover Design_E. M. !

IUuxtrating a scene from “The Peacock’s Shadow ”

The Peacock’s Shadow_E. Hoffmann Price 580

A tale of devil-worship and the Adytum of Darkness—a
■mystery story of graphic action and exotic imagery

The Star Shell (Part 1)_George 0. Wallis & B. Wallis 597

A four-part u’eird-scientific serial about a thrilling voyage
to the planet Jujnter

November_A. Leslie 618

Verse

The Parasitic Hand_R. Anthony 619

A terrific life-and-death struggle between a living man
and a hand that groped among his vitals

(Continued on Next Page)

— ' —^ - .

(Continued from Preceding Page)

The City of Spiders-H. Warner Munn 625

A complete novelette of shuddery horror and eery fascina¬
tion that will remain long in your memory

The Creature of Man-Oscar Cook 647

A Chinese tale about a cruel mandarin and the terrible
deception that was practised by his majordomo

The Ode to Pegasus_Maria Moravsky 659

A dream-tale of the winged horse, and the yearnings of a
boy to fly in the sky

The Fiend of the Marsh__R. E. Lewis & Martha M. Cockrill 663

The haunted marsh-woods finally gave up the dread secret
that had terrorized the community

The Tenth Commandment_Victor Rousseau 677

The third in a series of stories, each complete in itself,
dealing with Dr. Ivan Brodsky, “The Surgeon of Souls’’

The Assault Upon Miracle Castle_J. M. Hiatt 684

Into one of the “holes in space,” into another dimension,
stepped a horde of Moorish warriors

For Clytie_Binny Koras 689

Across Space (Conclusion)_Edmond Hamilton 690

A three-part weird-scientific serial—strange beings under
Easter Island pull the planet Mars from its orbit

The Dog-Eared God_Frank Belknap Long, Jr. 699

There were strange Icings in the old forgotten days in
Egypt, and they would not brook irreverent modem prying

The Caves of Kooli-Kan_Robert S. Carr 704

Verse

Weird Story Reprint

No. 17. Ligeia_Edgar Allan Poe 705

This is the story that Poe himself considered his supreme
prose masterpiece

The Eyrie _ 715

A chat with the readers

ON VIEVX, what do you
say to a bit of housebreak¬
ing?”

This, from Pierre d’Artois, a gen¬
tleman of France and a master of the
sword, seemed unusual, to say the
least.

“Well, why not?” I agreed, not to
be outdone by the d’Artois nonchal¬
ance. “But whose house do we in¬
vade? What the devil, do you fear I
will become homesick if from time to
time there is not something to remind
me of my own native land of lib¬
erty?”

“Main non! No, we are not going
as prohibition agents. Not at all!
And it is no ordinary house into
which we are to break. We invade
the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis
de la Tour de Maracq,” announced
Pierre as he stepped on the accelera¬
tor of his favorite car, the Issotta
roadster.

“But what of Monsieur the Mar¬
quis?” I suggested with what seemed
to be a touch of reason.

580

“He is very busy at Biarritz at a
fencing tournament.”

Well, this solved one riddle: I now
knew why d’Artois, that fierce old
ferrailleur, had overlooked a chance
to demonstrate his exquisite mastery
of the sword.

“But, mon Pierre, what of the
housebreaking? What loot are we
after?” I ventured as we cleared
Pont de Mousserole and left behind
us the gray battlements of Bayonne.

“The truth of it is, I am playing
what you call the hunch,” he evaded,
then continued: ‘ 4 But he is the good
hunch. There has been an elope¬
ment, and it is for me to locate the
lady.”

Worse and worse yet! A quiet
month in Bayonne....

“Who is the girl?”

D’Artois laughed.

“A princess, and the daughter of a
king.”

“Not bad for a marquis. And
young and beautiful?” I retorted to

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

581

the mockery I saw in his keen old
eyes.

“Beautiful, yes; if you like such
beauty. But young, no. In fact,
older than I am. ’ ’

“The devil!”

‘ ‘ The truth! Thirty-seven hun¬
dred years old at least.”

This was too much!

“Mais non. I do not jest,” contin¬
ued Pierre. “She was stolen from
the Guimet museum of Lyons and
carried all the way to the chateau of
the marquis.”

“Well, and that is a case for the
police, is it not?”

“No. For one is not really cer¬
tain ; it is hut strongly suspected that
he accomplished the almost impossible
feat of looting the museum and car¬
rying the mummy to his chateau.
Monsieur the Prefect of Police, not
being any too sure of himself, has
taken me into his confidence and
asked me to investigate unofficially.
A false move would ruin him, since
Monsieur the Marquis is a man of in¬
fluence. ’ ’

“But why should anyone steal a
mummy, especially de la Tour de
Maracq, who is rich as an Indian
prince, and of a house as old as
Charlemagne?”

“A scholar, a soldier, a man of let¬
ters,” enumerated d’Artois, continu¬
ing my thought, “and a fantastic
madman, if this report is correct. He
is too talented for sanity. ’ ’

‘ ‘ Even as yourself, ’ ’ I hinted.

“Touche!” acknowledged d’Artois.
“But I do not elope with ladies 3700
years old.”

He fingered a pack of Bastos, but
thinking better of so foul a deed, de¬
cided to light the Coronado I had
given him.

“All very quaint. But let’s get to
facts,” I urged. “What have you to
work on in this love affair ? ’ ’

“I have the good hunch. And it is
more of a love affair than you
realize.”

Which was logical enough. Those
whom gold could not tempt, might in¬
deed steal objects of art, jewels over
which to gloat in secret, a relic, an
antique rug; but a shriveled mummy!
Well, tastes vary.

And the case should be simple of
solution, at least as regarded the
marquis; for the missing lady could
not be concealed with any degree of
facility. A simple matter of walking
or climbing into the chateau, and
leaving again with our princess; or
else reporting that she was not to be
found, and that Monsieur the Mar¬
quis was not her abductor. A jewel
could be hidden; but a mummy ....

T he chateau was perched upon a
crest some hundred meters off the
road.. We parked the Issotta and
proceeded on foot.

Instead of knocking at the door, as
seemed to be his intent, despite his
quip about housebreaking, d’Artois
selected a key from his ring, tried it;
selected another, picked at the lock,
but to no avail. The third, however,
was applied with more success; the
heavy door yielded to his touch, ad¬
mitting us into a vestibule, thence to
a salon.

“Welcome to Tour de Maracq,”
murmured d’Artois with a courtly
bow. “Quick about it, and we’ll be
out of here long before he has fought
his last bout. ’ ’

“But the servants?” I suggested.
‘ ‘ They are few in number. It
seems the marquis has an aversion to
women, so that there are no female
domestics to contend with. Thus it
is that one of the menage has gone to
Bayonne to negotiate with a stranger
who sought to buy some rare vintages
which are to be pilfered from the
master’s cellars. Another is keeping
a rendezvous with a demoiselle who
hailed him a week ago and made an
engagement for today. Each has
some illicit engagement whereof he
will not babble. Now it would have

582

WEIRD TALES

been inconvenient to arrange on short
order for lovers for any female serv¬
ants . . . praise be to the eccentricity
of Monsieur the Marquis! ’ ’

I noted the rich tapestries; the
massive teakwood furniture; the floor
of rare hardwoods partly masked by
Chinese and Indian rugs. And on
the walls were arms of infinite vari¬
ety; wavy-bladed kresses, kampilans,
simitars; halberds, assegai, lances;
maces and battle-axes in endless num¬
ber, all grouped in clusters. Some of
these arms were burnished; but many
bore dark, ominous stains.

And thus we roamed through the
house, from one apartment to an¬
other, I wondering at the beauty, the
grotesquerie, the oddness of the fur¬
nishings and adornments, d’Artois
regarding all with an appraising
glance that revealed nothing of what¬
ever interest he might have felt.

Strange gods in bronze and onyx
and basalt glared at us, brandished
their distorted arms in futile rage,
mouthed threats with their twisted
lips; resented our presence in every
way possible to inanimate things;
inanimate, yes, but enlivened with
the spiritual essence absorbed from
their centuries of devotees. But no
mummies. Nevertheless, d’Artois
studied his surroundings. But noth¬
ing seemed to arouse his interest, un¬
til .. .

“Ah . . . look!”

He indicated a tiny darabukek, a
small kettledrum whose body was of
grotesque carven wood, its head of a
strange hide; strange to me, at least.

“Curious, yes. But what has this
to do with mummies?”

“Nothing at all. But I fancied
that drumhead ...”

A smile concluded his remark.
Now what the devil significance had
that little tom-tom?

"But no mummies, Pierre.”

“True. But one can picture a
man’s mind from the house he keeps.
Fancy then the odd brain that twists

in the skull of de la Tour de
Maracq! ’ ’

And thus, room by room, we
searched the chateau proper, serv¬
ants’ quarters, basements, passages
and all. Toward the end of our tour
we stumbled upon a stairway which
led to an apartment which we had
overlooked.

It was a large room of contradict¬
ory appearance: a study, if one
judged from its desk, table, book¬
cases; a bedroom, surely, if gaged by
the lordly canopied bed of antique
workmanship; or a museum, if one
drew conclusions from the ornaments.

As we had done in the salon, we
found again a collection of arms, arm¬
or, polycephalous gods with contorted
limbs and features. And this time,
mummies, two of them: one in its
sycamore case, the other, not only en¬
cased, but enshrined in its massive
granite sarcophagus.

Naturally I was exultant.

“Useless!’’ exelaimed Pierre. “See
how they fit their cases; and see also
that none of the cases would fit the
princess we seek.”

With a tape he laid off the dimen¬
sions of the mummy we sought, show¬
ing clearly that those present were of
greater stature.

“Not so good, Pierre, not so good.
Apparently we’re stuck.”

“Not entirely,” muttered Pierre
absent-mindedly.

I saw him examining an epee, a
slim, three-edged duelling sword.
The pommel, which was adorned with
a tiny silver peacock, seemed to fas¬
cinate d’Artois. Which was natural
enough, Pierre being a connoisseur of
the sword, and its undisputed master.
Still, business was business . . .

A dried, mummified human head,
wrinkled and shrunken, a Patagonian
relic, hung by its hair from a cluster
of arrows. And this, attracting my
eye to the library table over which
that gruesome trophy hung, drew me
to the table itself. I picked up from

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

the inestimable Kurdish rug which
covered its top a thick book, leather-
bound, and emblazoned with a pea¬
cock.

‘ ‘ Hell’s fire! It’s bound in human
skin!”

“So it is,” agreed Pierre. "I
wondered how long it would take you
to recognize human hide when it was
tanned. You passed up that little
drum without noticing it. ’ ’

And then Pierre thumbed the
pages, began to read to himself,
©lancing over his shoulder, I saw
that he well spared himself the trou¬
ble of reading aloud. The book was
either in Arabic or Persian, neither
of which I could understand.

As Pierre read, and fumed, and
muttered, apparently quite inter¬
ested, I devoted myself to the one
bright spot in that necrophagous
apartment: a painting in oils, a por¬
trait of a young woman, lovely be¬
yond all description, with smoldering,
Babylonic eyes, full, -delicately sensu¬
ous lips; fine features whose every line
and curve bespoke calm, aristocratic
insolence. And this smiled from a
cluster of swords, and was enshrined
in an atmosphere of death and doom,
and gruesome relics! Whether or not
the kidnaper of a mummy, this mar-
quis was surely a freak.

Pierre’s smile, as he laid down the
book he had been reading, resembled
that of a cat who has just had a pleas¬
ant tete-a-tete with the canary.
Whether the worthy marquis had ex¬
pressed his unusual humor by having
a book of Arabic jests bound in hu¬
man hide, I couldn’t say; but Pierre
seemed on the inside of something
which had been evading him.

The portrait caught his eye.

“Very lovely. Yes, I met her,
twenty years ago, shortly before her
untimely death. His last mistress .. ”

Death . . . death . . . even that love¬
liness enshrined by morbid trophies
was itself a memento of death. I
shuddered, chilled, despite the sun’s

slanting rays which warmed and il¬
lumined that necrophiliac roam.

“And he sleeps here. Or is this
but an antique, a decoration?”

I glanced again at the lordly bed,
half expecting to find festoons of
skulls about the canopy, fringes of
scalp locks, strands of teeth. Then I
noted an unnatural curvature of the
drawn curtains, something which
forced them forward, and out of their
natural drape.

“Que diable! Another mummy!
And no case to match.”

D ’Arkus took from his vest pocket
his tape-line, took measurements, com¬
pared them with his notebook;
studied the wrappings, the markings.

“The very lady!”

I advanced to pick up the aged
beauty. Simplicity, this quest. And
this, after all Pierre’s halo of mys¬
tery!

“ JamaisJ Pas du tout! We must
locate the case; all or nothing. If we
alarm him, who knows what may hap¬
pen to the case? Allans /”

But before leaving, he paused to
regard once more the portrait of the
girl with the Babylonic eyes.

“That was a lovely little epee, that
one with the peacock on its pommel.
It seems strangely familiar . . . well,
and since the marquis has probably
fought his last bout and is on his
way back, we leave opportunely,” re¬
marked d’Artois, as the Issotta’s long
nose headed toward Bayonne.

A t Place de Theatre we parked,
found a table on the paving, well
within the shade of the ■ awning.
D’Artois called for a weird favorite
of his, whose two ingredients he him¬
self mixed, and then diluted with
charged water: a milky, curiously
flavored drink, Anis del Oso and Cor •
diale Grentiane, a suave, insipid mad¬
house in a slim, tall glass. The
springs of the Isle of Patmos must
have flowed with Anis del Oso !

As we ripped and smoked, I noted

WEIRD TALES

584

the great limousine of Monsieur the
Marquis de la Tour de Maraeq draw
up to the curbing, returning from
Biarritz. Lean, aquiline-featured,
elegant and courtly in bearing, and
haughty as Lucifer was the marquis.
Touching the brim of his high hat
with the head of his stick, he ac¬
knowledged the salute of the footman,
then handed from the limousine a
woman whose features, to say the
very least, startled me.

“What in-!”

“No, mon cher,” murmured d’Ar¬
tois, “she is no ghost, though she
may be the reincarnation of the lady
whose portrait we saw at Chateau
Maraeq. There is no telling what
deviltry the marquis has worked in
his day, but this is a flesh-and-blood
woman. And now do you see a
light?”

“A light? What in the world has
she to do with this mummy?”

D’Artois laughed maliciously.

“I’ll swear you have mummies on
the brain! But just wait. Well, that
is Mademoiselle Lili Allzaneau of 34
rue Lachepaillet. Like her scriptural
counterpart, she lives on the city wall
in an apartment overlooking the
park.”

Which last was of course superflu¬
ous: for the mention of her address
was quite sufficient. Yet La Belle
Allzaneau bore the stamp of the thor¬
oughbred ; the patrician insolence, the
smoldering Babylonic eyes, long,
narrow, veiled; the slim, gracious
hands of a princess of the blood.
And her dress, and her figure, and
her bearing were all in accord. Be¬
hold the grand dame of the chateau,
and her double, La Belle Allzaneau of
rue Lachepaillet!

A few days elapsed, during which
Pierre left me to my own devices.
And then, emerging from his preoc¬
cupation, he sought relaxation in a
stroll which took us along the Adour,

around, and back to the ramparts of
Lachepaillet.

To our right was the Gate of Spain,
its drawbridge and guardhouse; far
beneath us, at the foot of the city
walls, on whose parapet we sat, was
the bottom of the dry moat ; while ta
our left front, across the moat and a
hundred meters beyond its outer
bank, was the Spring of St. L^on and
the cluster of ancient trees that half
concealed it. Though their crests al¬
most met, their trunks were widely
separated, so that the spring and its
low, hemispherical cupola were in a
small clearing.

The sun was setting. Long shad¬
ows marched slowly across the gently
rolling ground beneath us, and to our
front. Pierre d’Artois, as he took
from his case and lit a villainous
Bastos, stared at the Spring of St.
Leon. And then he resumed the
thread of his rambling discourse, con¬
tinuing a tale he had so often before
begun and abruptly abandoned.

“With that lunge I could have im¬
paled the devil himself, for I had him
swinging like a windmill, skilful
swordsman though he was. Yes, and
had it really been Monsieur the Devil
himself, and not Santiago with whom
I crossed swords, I still hold that
someone must have struck me down
from the rear to save his lord and
master! ’ ’

He spoke of his secret duel by
moonlight with Santiago the Span¬
iard, two years ago, in the small clear¬
ing by this very Spring of St. Leon,
and of the outcome of the affair: how,
as after hard, fierce fighting he had
slipped through the Spaniard’s guard
to impale him with a thrust to the
chest, there had been an awful flare
of elemental flame, followed by black¬
ness and oblivion; how Jannicot, his
servant, had come in search of him,
carried him back to the car; and how,
on the return trip, they had found
Don Santiago dead beneath his own
car, wrecked on the way from Spain,

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

589

hurrying, apparently, to keep his
rendezvous with d’Artois.

“Since Santiago never reached
Bayonne to meet me, then who? A
double ? For that stout wrist was not
that of an apparition, nor do illusions
or phantoms leave footprints, nor can
they heat one’s blade so that one’s
arm tingles up to the shoulder. Im¬
possible ! ’ ’

“But then what did hit you?”

“Who knows? Perhaps a confed¬
erate, despite our having agreed to
meet without seconds. But by the
time. I recovered full possession of my
wits, several days later, any bruise
the blow might have left had sub¬
sided. Yet something must have
struck me. . .”

In the lengthening shadows, the
Spring of St. Leon appeared less and
less as a place for midnight trysts,
either for love or war. And though
listening to Pierre’s dissertation, my
thoughts were of Bayonne, this “pet”
city of mine which is still girdled by
walls' and moats and earthworks;
whose ground is steeped with blood
spilled in centuries of warfare, and
undermined with casements, and pas¬
sages, and dungeons. Some of the pas¬
sages had been built by Vauban when
he fortified the town; but there were
many others, of much greater an¬
tiquity ; vaults wherein Roman legion¬
aries had worshiped Mithra, Saracen
emirs practised necromancy, and me¬
dieval alchemists sought the immut¬
able Azoth, and dabbled in thauma-
turgy.

“A curious thing I noted,” con¬
tinued d’Artois, “was that a small
silver peacock adorned the pommel of
his epee. . . strange how one notes
such details before a duel. . .”

Silver peacock. . . why, we had
seen a similar sword at Chateau de la
Tour de Maracq the other day! . .
I wondered. . .

And out of that network of pas¬
sages, what might not have emerged
from a mining casemate to strike

Pierre from the rear and save the day
for Santiago, or Santiago’s double, or
the devil, or what it was that d’Artois
had met?

Something had loosened the ordi¬
narily well-shackled d’Artois tongue.
I marveled, and encouraged its wag¬
ging. And then he stopped short,
pointing toward the Spring of St.
Leon.

“By the-!” he exclaimed,

quaintly distorting a selection from
the American doughboy’s lexicon,
which he strove most valiantly to
master. “What is she doing there?”

A girl stood at the spring; a slim
girl whose white arms and shoulders
and iridescent gown gleamed boldly
against the shadows of the grove and
the dark cupola of the spring.

“La Belle Allzaneau,” explained
Pierre; for I lacked that old man’s
keen vision.

As he spoke, she rounded the
cupola of St. Leon, its low gray mass
hiding her from sight.

“But how can you recognize any¬
one at that distance and in this light,
Pierre ? ’ ’

“Her general outline, the gown she
wears. . . which by the way is a

trifle inappropriate for the locality.

. . I have often seen her at the Ca¬
sino at Biarritz.”

'T'hat evening, as Jannicot brought
our coffee, d ’Artois, after theoriz¬
ing for a while about the duel at St.
Leon, abruptly switched to the mum¬
my, poor neglected lady whom he
seemed to have entirely forgotten.

“Your imagination, mon cher, is
entirely dead,” he declared.. “And in
this quest of the mummy case (for we
have the lady herself located) one
needs much imagination. Alors, to
you shall fall the duty of private
soldier; that of sentry-go, by night.
Jannicot shall walk post during the
day.”

“What?”

WEIRD TALES

“Yes. Sentry-go. You watelx by
night. ’ ’

‘ ‘ Why pick on me V ’

“You are too conspicuous in this
small town. Jannicot, watching a
cow staked on the city wall, would
never be noted, for he will look like
any other yokel similarly occupied.
Whereas you. . . ”

I bowed elaborately in appreciation
of the compliment.

“Whereas you, under cover of
darkness—but that is obvious.”

“But how will watching 34 rue.
Lachepaillet assist you?”

“It will prevent your disturbing
my meditations.”

“Still, what has that girl to do
with mummies?”

‘ ‘ Imbecile! You have no imagina¬
tion. So take your post at sunset,
watch until morning, and report to
me all the exits, entries, and doings
of La Belle Allzaneau, and her visi¬
tors as well. Though few but
Monsieur the Marquis call at her
apartment.”

And thus I spent a week, walking
post by night. Not truly walking, but
rather lounging on the parapet of the
'ancient battlements, always keeping
an eye on the door of Lili Allzaneau,
who lived on the city wall, who had
ensnared a marquis; “a peer of
France,” as they used to put it.

And what was Pierre, beau sabreur
and master of devices, doing as I
frittered away my time, noting the
princely cars which stopped at the
door of Lili of the City Wall; listen¬
ing to the sound of merriment sub¬
dued to a patrician pitch: an aristo¬
cratic reserve in keeping with the
lorette who designed to accord only to
the lords of the world the pleasure of
her presence?

Each morning I rendered my re¬
port. usually with mocking formality,
imitating the supposed manner of a
private detective. I especially en¬
joyed the report of the fourth vigil:
“Monsieur Pierre d’Artois, noted

boulevardier and swordsman, was
seen entering the apartment of
Mademoiselle Allzaneau at about
11:30 p.. m., apparently having re¬
turned with mademoiselle from the
theater. When I quit my post at sun¬
rise, he had not yet left. ’ ’

‘ - Idiot! ’ ’ snapped Pierre, relishing
the jest. “You slept on post.’’

‘ ‘ The devil I did; I watched most
vigilantly. ’ ’

“Well, since you must know it all,
the apartment of Mademoiselle All¬
zaneau has an exit on 43 rue des
Faures, the alley which parallels rue
Lachepaillet. Now, are you ashamed
of your base insinuations ? ’ ’

I was properly squelched. Later, I
checked up on rue des Faures and
verified his claim. But what in all
creation had Pierre been doing in the
company of La Belle Allzaneau? A
man of his age! Though I could well
conceive that any lady of the world
could take pride in being seen with
Pierre d’Artois, that fine, courtly old
master of the sword.

What a mess! Not a trace of con¬
nection between any of the diverse
elements that danced before my eyes:
a marquis, a mummy he had stolen,
her still missing case; a duel, fought
two years ago at St. Leon, and a
lorette with Babylonic eyes. . . yes,

and the lady of the portrait at the
chateau, the double, the deceased
original whose reincarnation La Belle
Allzaneau seemed to be. Too much
for me!

But one does not question d’Artois
to any purpose.

A w r eek, as I said, had passed: un¬
eventful espionage. And then, just
as I was to leave Pierre’s house to
resume my vigil, he detained me.

“A moment, mon vieux. I have
again the hunch. It will happen to¬
night.”

“What, for the Lord’s sake, will
happen? The mummy seek her case,
or you elope with Lili? Or challenge
your rival the marquis?”

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

587

“Anything is more than likely to
happen tonight. I hear that Monsieur
the Marquis has gone to Spain. And
Mademoiselle Allzaneau will receive
no -Visitors this evening, not even me.
And so on. . . I have the hunch,
as you so elegantly put it, the hell
will he popping tonight.”'

“Well, where do I come in?”

“You? You shall follow her should
she leave her apartment; follow her,
and see it to a finish, whatever it be.
It may be to a strange place, mon
vieux; therefore take these with you.”

He passed me a Luger automatic, a
blackjack, and what appeared to be a
left-handed, fingerless, mailed glove;
strangely like a Roman cestus, at least
as to its obvious purpose.

“Looks like trouble, Pierre,” I re¬
marked, as I strapped the Luger and
its holster under my left arm. “But
why this glove? . . . and . . . what
the devil! A peacock decorating it! ”

“Yes. It may serve you well. If
you are accosted, exhibit the peacock,
and you will be passed on without
question.”

“Lay off, Pierre, lay off! Have
you a dime novel complex?”

“Mais non. Do not laugh. You
may have no occasion to try it. But
remember the peacock. A full moon
will make your task easier, or more
difficult. . . that depends. . . As
for me. . . we may meet unex¬

pectedly. But if not, see it to a finish,
and do not fail me. ’ ’

With this command firmly im¬
pressed upon me, I took my post,
wondering at the assortment of junk
which he had forced upon me. A
Luger. . . well, that was sound

judgment; a pistol is an excellent
playmate. And a blackjack could
conceivably come in handy. But that
fingerless glove with its peacock!

T^eakly midnight. Not a car in
front of her apartment all eve¬
ning. La Belle Allzaneau evidently
was carrying on revery and not riot

during the absence of her lover in
Spain.

A copper kettle of a moon was ris¬
ing.

“Do not fail me. Follow her and
use your judgment.”

Well, and into what sort of mess
would Pierre be venturing in the
meanwhile? Rich entertainment
somewhere for someone!

Lord, what a sleepy night! Silence
along rue Lachepaillet, and more
silence in the park beneath me, be¬
yond the dry moat that girdled the
walls. The night before Christmas
was fairly spiked to the mast for pure
stillness.

Follow Lili. . . where ? Why the
pistol, the blackjack, the ornamental
brass knuckles? . . brass, the devil!
I’d have sworn they were gold. . .
or perhaps it was the moonlight..

A light in Lili’s window, just for
a moment. Then darkness again.
And then the door on the rez-de-
chaussee opened. Lili herself, in a
gown of star-dusted, metallic luster
stepped into the street, crossed,
paused within a meter of my lurking
place.

In the entire world had I never
seen a woman half as lovely, as per¬
fectly formed, as faultlessly arrayed
as she was, from her silver slippers to
her dusky hair. . . great Lord! a
peacock tiara, all aflame with small
rubies, and emeralds, and sapphires
and diamonds glowed in the darkness
of her coiffure! It began to seem as
though I had but to step forth, show
her my brass knuckles and their silver
peacock, and claim her as a partner
in whatever devil’s dance was in store
for us.

“Follow her, and use your judg¬
ment. ’ ’

No, better not accost her; else he’d
have said, “Accompany her.”

All this in an instant; then she
turned to a low, narrow entrance
directly beneath my position on the

WEIRD TALES

parapet, and vanished into its open¬
ing.

Now what on earth was that fault¬
lessly gowned girl doing in an ancient
powder magazine or storeroom which
used to serve the garrison in days
past? I’d prowled around in many
of them; all were crowded with rub¬
bish, and filth, and the dust of cen¬
turies.

Now when should I begin to trail
her ? If immediately, I should betray
my presence; if I paused, I’d lose
thie trail. And then I became aware
of the aura of perfume she had left
behind her, a rich, heavy, arabesque
fragrance. The very scent a sample
of which Pierre had let me smell the
other evening! Now, by the rood, I
could trail that persistent, curious
perfume anywhere. . . So, after a
pause of a few more moments, I
leaped from the parapet and plunged
into the magazine.

"Plunged” is the right word,
though I didn’t begin plunging until
my third step into the darkness, when
I Stepped into vacancy. I came to a
stop at a landing, ten steps down.
With belated good judgment, I sized
things up with my electric torch.
More steps, steep, narrow, rubbish¬
laden, leading to abysmal blackness
far below. And in darkness I edged
my way down. The haunting, per¬
sistent fragrance of La Belle All-
zaneau led me on.

I paused at the foot of the last
flight. My feet were on sandy bot¬
tom. I listened, but heard nothing
save the breathing of that fierce si¬
lence. And from the subterranean
mustiness came the perfume of Lili,
reaching from the blackness to enfold
'me. She had been there, and had not
branched off into any lateral passages
on her way down.

Luger in one hand, torch in the
other, I stabbed the gloom. Vacancy.
I was alone in that ancient "vault,
alone with the perfume of a girl who
wore a jeweled peacock in her hair.

There were tiny footprints on the
sand. And then I noted a low arch¬
way, an exit, which, being on the
shadowed side of a bastion, had not
had its presence betrayed by the
entrance of outer moonlight. Lili had
left the vault, whose bottom was on
a level with the bottom of the dry
moat; had left the enclosure of
Bayonne, and was without the walls,
somewhere.

Then I picked up the trail, tiny
footprints in the sand. She had kept
close to the wall, heading along to¬
ward Porte d’Espagne. But I knew
she would not pass that point: for no
woman would ruin her footgear in
the slime and mud of the moat bottom
past the Gate of Spain, the result of
seepage from the locks of the Adour.

Beneath the drawbridge of Porte
d’Espagne, I picked a lingering trace
of perfume; and likewise her foot¬
prints, which for several paces I had
lost. She had edged away from the
wall, crossed the moat, ascended the
steep bank.

Her destination? Logically, any
place; she had choice of the whole
countryside. Nor could I trail her
any farther. Tracking in sand is the
limit of my skill!

I took stock of my surroundings. If
she continued in a straight line. . .

Hell’s hinges! She was bound for
the Spring of St. Leon, that unsavory
spot where d’Artois, in his moment
of victory over Santiago, had been
struck from the rear.

Conceivably she might be keeping a
rendezvous with the marquis, or more
likely, some other lover. And we had
seen her there a week ago, at sunset.

Things seemed to be pulling to¬
gether, but leaving me still confused.
The girl had some connection with
this spot where Santiago, armed with
a sword whose pommel was adorned
with a peacock, had met d’Artois.
The marquis had a similar sword;
and the marquis was the girl's lover.
And die girl was the living image of

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

589

the former mistress of the marquis.
She wore a peaeoek in her coiffure,
and I wore one on my left hand. Well,
what of it? Something, yes; but
what?

A sequin glistened on the ground.
In the stillness of the clearing, the
heavy air still bore a trace of her per¬
fume. But die was nowhere in sight.

I sized up the ground near the
spring. There, in that small, flat
space, Pierre and Santiago had
crossed swords. There was the rock
on which he had laid his hat and coat.
Here he had taken his position, sword
in hand, on guard. .. .

I whirled in my tracks. Pure nerv¬
ousness; a reflex occasioned by the
memory of that something which had
struck d’Artois from the rear. There,
in the shadow of a small knoll, was
the entrance to a casemate, seemingly
at least. Another sequin gleamed on
,the ground. On her way, she had
severed a thread of her gown, and
was now shedding sequins every few
paces. With her short start, she could
scarcely have left my range of vision,
unless she were deliberately hiding.
Then. . . logically, she had entered
the casemate; had at least paused at
its entrance, as the sequin dropped
from her gown indicated.

Without any excessive eagerness or
exultation, I entered the casemate.
Darkness, absolute. But a trace of
her perfume 1 I smelled not only per¬
fume, but trouble; here, for a fact, I
was really getting into something.

A few steps, feeling my way in the
dark. I dared not risk the torch.
Ahead of me, apparently around a
curve, was a faint glow, as of a dim
light still farther beyond, a shadowy
reflex of a half-concealed illuminant;
so dim that I had not perceived it
for a moment. Well. . .

alt ! ’ ’ snapped a voice.

The flare of an electric torch
smote me full in the face, blinding
me. But before I could draw the
Huger. . .

“You are late,” continued the
voiee, “and I doubt that the master
will receive you in that garb. .

“Never mind my clothes,” I
temporized, catching my wits and
also a glimpse of my aecoster, now
that the ray had left my face. ‘ ‘ Has
the lady of the peacock-?”

I touched my forehead with my
left hand, a more instinctive than de¬
liberate gesture to indicate Dili’s
coiffure. As I lowered my hand, the
wateher bowed low, kissing the pea¬
cock’s figure.

That was an excellent little black¬
jack I wielded with my right, smack¬
ing neatly across the inclined head of
the warder.

“Well, and if the master is par¬
ticular about costumes, perhaps this
will answer.”

After stripping the hood and cape
from the sentry, I hound and gagged
him, arranged him snugly against and
parallel to the wall, and continued
my way down the passage; down,
literally, as it inclined at a rather
quick slope, curving ever to the right,
so that it led back toward the citadel
of Bayonne, and far beneath its foun¬
dations. At regular intervals, candles
cast a dim light.

I had noted the swarthy, foreign
features of the warder I had black¬
jacked, and wondered still more. Al¬
most anything was likely to happen
... and where was Pierre ?.

Then came steps, winding, circular
steps, leading to the very heart of the
earth. Chilly dampness had dis¬
placed the outer warmth. To what
strange festival was that girl bound?
And what was that peacock which had
such talismanic effect on the warder?
Who the master? And why the cos¬
tume?

At the foot of the winding stairs I
found a twisting passage, this time
level. Turns. . . more turns . . .
a murmur of voices, chanting sonor¬
ously. . . and then. . .

A heavy iron grillwork, a gate,

590

WEIRD TALES

barred my progress. I flattened my¬
self close against the door jamb, peer¬
ing through the bars at a unique
sight. Before me, at the end of the
passage, was a great vaulted chamber,
illumined with a deep red glow. As
much of the walls as I could see was
covered with black arras, figured gro¬
tesquely in silver embroidery, mon¬
strous designs of intertwining forms
and unheard-of creatures alternating
with medallions inscribed in charac¬
ters resembling Arabic. At the far
end of the vault was an altar, behind
which stood the enshrined image of a
great peacock, his painted fan fully
spread, and enameled in naturalistic
colors. A bronze railing rose waist-
high before the altar; and from a
cleft in the platform between the rail¬
ing and altar, two great black hands,
palms uplifted, reached forth.

Kneeling on the floor in crescent
formation were a dozen robed and
hooded figures, worshipers at the pea¬
cock’s shrine. The chanting had
ceased; and from the group rose one
who advanced to the altar steps, fac¬
ing the image, extended his arms, and
began the recital of a ritual. At times
he paused for the response of the com¬
municants; resumed his chant, ceas¬
ing again to make gestures and genu¬
flections. But not a word of it could
I understand; neither of the priest,
nor of the worshipers.

Well, and where was La Belle All-
zaneau, she who wore on her fore¬
head the unusual symbol which
seemed to be the key to this secret
place into which I had wandered?
And Pierre? Certainly he had not
sent me on into this place and stayed
off the scene himself; or had he mis¬
calculated, sending me to real action
instead of reserving it for himself?
. . . And thus I wondered, won¬

dered at the scene, at the rites, at
the unholy tapestry of the walls, and
the cornices which depicted in sculp¬
tured panorama the unsavory themes
of Asian mysteries. . . the pre¬

decessors of the peacock.

Pierre? . . . No, Pierre could
not have miscalculated so far as to
send me into the midst of things and
follow a false lead himself . . .

great Lord, could it be Pierre who
conducted the ritual? Absurd; but
the audacity of the man knew no
limits!

On and on rolled the rich, reson¬
ant voice of the priest. Acolytes
marched about the crescent of kneel¬
ing communicants, swinging censers
and chanting; retired, grouped them¬
selves about the altar. And then. . .

The priest turned to face the con¬
gregation. Not Pierre, but Etienne,
Marquis de la Tour de Maracq! He
who had stolen the mummy of a
princess; he who lived surrounded by
death’s symbols, a servant of poly-
cephalous idols, he who studied an ob¬
scure book bound in human hide,
found time also to act as high priest
of the silver peacock.

A sweeping gesture; another sonor¬
ous phrase; and the assemblage rose,
bowed, backed out of the vault, to¬
ward the iron grating through which
I peered.

I shrank back against the wall, be¬
coming a shadow among the shadows,
and waited for the grill to swing open
and let the worshipers enter the pas¬
sage so that, emerging from my angle,
I could mingle with them, one of
them, disguised in my hood and mask,
and guarded by the peacock on my
wrist. And once they had passed on,
I could return.

And then I remembered the warder
I had bound and gagged., Would
they notice him lying in the shadows?
Should I hasten on ahead of them,
conceal the sentry outside the pas¬
sage, and thus avoid the alarm caused
by his discovery ? Damn that sentry!
Why had I left him where he
dropped?

The door clicked. Too late to run
on ahead to clear the way. The
cloaked worshipers crowded even into
my comer in that narrow passage, not

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

591

even noticing me. One, however,
seemed to mistake me for a comrade
who had knelt beside him, and had
left at his elbow.

“The master seemed N hasty tonight,
don’t you think, Raoul?”

I shrugged my shoulders, mum¬
bled a phrase in Tagalog. The ruse
served well. Evidently men of all
languages met there.

“Oh, pardon, Monsieur. . .”

And he went on through the pas¬
sage in search of his comrade.

I mingled with the dozen who w r ere
leaving, contriving to fall back un¬
obtrusively, thus avoiding the appear¬
ance of lingering in a place from
which all were departing. And as
the tail of the file of hooded men
rounded the first turn, I dropped
back and resumed my post at one
side of the grill, deep in the shadows,
seeing, but unseen.

T he marquis descended from the
altar steps, halted in the center
of the vault; stroked his black mus¬
tache; frowned. . . Three swift

steps to his left brought him to the
heavy black arras, which he parted.
“They have gone, cherie.”

And from behind the embroidered
hangings came La Belle Allzaneau,
white arms and shoulders and iri-
discent gown agleam under that deep,
lurid light.

“Etienne, I’m somewhat disap¬
pointed. . . I had expected-”

“To see something grotesque and
awful, and outlandish? Ma chere,
those whom you saw were neophytes,
and the rites of the innermost shrine
are not for their eyes, ’ ’ explained the
marquis as he again parted the arras
and drew from behind it a low r table
laden with refreshments.

He then drew up a chaise longue
among whose cushions the girl en¬
throned herself. The marquis took
his place opposite her, and facing me,
so that while I could look him full in
the eye, I eould see but the profile of

La Belle Allzaneau, Lili of Lache-
paillet, the lorette who had the man¬
ner of a queen.

“No, petite,” continued the mar¬
quis, “those were neophytes. But to
you I shall reveal-”

“Yet am I not even more of a
neophyte?” interrupted the girl as
she selected a wafer from the tray be¬
fore her.

‘ ‘ Nevertheless, I shall reveal to you,
as I promised, the innermost secrets;
you shall enter the adytum, the awful
holy of holies.”

“But, Etienne, you must explain.
Who is this peacock, and what is his
significance ? ’ ’

Who, indeed, was the peacock? I
forgot, for the moment, that the
bound and gagged sentry might be
discovered by the departing com¬
municants, thus betraying the fact
that someone had intruded. Still, it
had taken me ten minutes to enter;
and they, going upgrade, up flights of
steps, would require more time. And
should they return, they would search
each passageway, taking their time,
in all thoroughness, probably twenty
minutes or half an hour.

Well then, and what was that glit¬
tering bird whose image had caused
the warder to bow and kiss my left
hand ?

“The peacock,” explained the mar¬
quis, answering the gifl, as well as
myself, “is the symbol of him we
serve: Malik Taus, which in the Pers¬
ian signifies ‘Lord Peacock’.”

“Which explains exactly nothing,
Etienne! ’ ’

“Malik Taus,” he repeated, as one
who humors a captivating but unruly
child, “is none other than he whom
they call Ahriman. . . Lucifer, the
Morning Star. . . Satan, the out¬
law, he whom we, the rebels, the bat¬
tered but unvanquished ones serve.
Now do you understand?”

Eavesdropping on devil-worship!
What next?

And La Belle Allzaneau smiled her

592

WEIRD TALES

slow, enigmatic smile, unterrified at
that which made me shudder.

Thus, as they ate and drank, the
marquis explained the monstrous
scenes depicted on the cornices, Ori¬
ental perversions antedating Malik
Taus, the girl interrupting from time
to time. I watched, and wondered.

Very curious it was that their
voices seemed to come from my right
clearly, but as from a greater distance
than the speakers seemed to be. It
was as if I were watching some fan-
tasmagoria. Her voice I heard as her
lips parted; but it seemed to come not
from her lips, but from my right.

And then it struck me as odd that
they both were left-handed. Both ate
left-handed, picked up their goblets
with their left hands. The marquis,
striking a match, struck it with his
left. Was this left-handedness an¬
other manifestation of the rites of
Malik Taus, or was it but coincidence
that both the girl and her host were
left-handed?

“This is an ancient shrine,” con¬
tinued the marquis, his voice clear,
but coming not from in front of me,
down a long, narrow passage, but
seemingly from my right. “This is
an ancient shrine in which Mithra
was worshiped by Roman legionaries;
and renegade Moslems and those who
followed the Moorish forees into
Spain bowed here before Tanit, and
Istar, Mylitta, and Anaitis, all of
whom are one, one goddess who came
out of Egypt. . . Isis, the Great
Goddess. .

I listened, fascinated by the rich
voice of that strange, dark man; nor
wondered that the girl was ensnared
by his pagan chant, his intoned syl¬
lables which sang of monstrous rites
and unheard-of lore. I forgot, re¬
membered, and straightway dismissed
the thought of the possible return of
the departed neophytes. My Luger
would serve me well, if necessary;
and hand to hand, the brass knuckles.

As the marquis smoked and drank,

and expounded, I saw that his gaze
went past the girl, seeming to seek me
in my alcove of blackness. But no,
surely he could not see me, where I
crouched in darkness. He frowned
passingly, shook his head, made a
fleeting gesture of annoyance, as of
one who is irritated by the buzzing
of a mosquito. Then, continuing his
speech, he reached again behind the
arras.

I heard a click, and at the same
time a faint, droning, humming
sound. For a moment the lights
dimmed. And then, suddenly, I
awoke to the significance of that
which had occurred. In the darkness
I saw very distinctly a bluish violet
glow, an aureole which surrounded
each of the bars of the gates before
me. That click had been the sound
of a latch slipping into place; and
that glow was the leakage into the air
of a high tension electrical current!

Hell’s bells! Had he seen me? Did
he know of my presence? Or. . .
perhaps. . . most likely it was that
he suspeeted the presence of some
loitering neophyte, some eavesdroper
who had paused, and who would, as
he leaned against the grillage, be
seared and seorched lifeless by the
flaming death that lurked in that
ironwork. My advance was barred
beyond all hope.

Well, I eould watch; and in case of
a pinch, a shot from my Luger would
reach down the passage. For I felt
sure that the marquis designed some
outlandish deed; not only the words
of Pierre, but the atmosphere of the
place, the very expression of the man
himself so worked on my nerves that
I sensed the presence of something
hideous and unheard of. That lurid
light, that glittering peaeock, those
black hands upraised toward the
altar, and the hypnotic words and
chanting tones of the marquis. . .
I shuddered. It is not pleasant to
consider shooting an unarmed man
from ambush, but. . . as these

French put it, que voulez-voust

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

593

“Without evil, there could be no
good,” continued the sonorous
rhythm of the marquis. “They are
extremes of the same essence, even as
heat and cold are of the same nature.
And to serve the Lord of Evil (if evil
indeed there is) is to pay a just tri¬
bute to him without whom there could
be none of the so-called good, if good
indeed there is. Thus in time to come,
when Malik Taus spreads his painted
fan over all the earth, we who now
serve him shall be princes and lords,
and shall inherit the world. Look!”
he commanded, his voice rising im¬
periously as he pointed to the shrine;
“look and see his thousand eyes that
watch over us!”

The girl turned, following with her
eyes his compelling gesture. And in
that instant the marquis, never paus¬
ing in his speech, dropped into her
wine a tiny pellet.

The man was mad with a fearful,
unspeakable. madness. And here I
was, barred from preventing what I
now sensed to be impending, a sequel
to the preliminary rites I had wit¬
nessed, a manifestation of demonaltry
in which none but the high priest
would officiate.

‘ ‘ Those black hands ? They are the
hands of Abbadon, the Dark Angel
who serves Malik Taus; and on them
we lay that which we dedicate to the
Lord Peacock,” explained the mar¬
quis.

I loosened the Luger in its holster.
At times one must shoot from ambush
. . . but not yet.

“And so you are the only adept,
Etienne ? ’ ’ queried the girl, resuming
her wine.

‘ ‘ There was another, but he is dead.
Through my fault. Don Santiago de
las Torres Negras.”

Lord, what a revelation! Here, in
this awful place, I was about to learn
another side of that uncanny duel
fought by Pierre d’Artois at mid¬
night, at the Spring of St. Leon.

“He challenged one Pierre d’Ar-

tios,” continued the marquis, “to
fight in secret, at midnight, at the
Spring of St. Leon. And the Master
forbade-”

“And why did you forbid, Eti¬
enne ? ’ ’

“I didn’t. No. The Master of Mas¬
ters. . . ” The marquis lowered his
voice. “A stranger out of Kurdistan,
one whom I recognized as a master of
adepts, by the signs he gave. . . the
Master, I now believe.. . . Malik

Taus himself, the Lord Peacock in¬
carnate as man! He forbade the duel.
I feared for Santiago, and wished to
prevent it, out of deference to the
Master’s wishes, and from fear of
d’Artois, a swordsman without like
or equal. So I invited Santiago to
a chateau across the border, in Spain,
set back all the clocks, sought to di¬
vert him, deceive him until, when
at last he did sense my device, it
would be too late for him to keep his
rendezvous. Rob him of his honor,
yes; make him fail in his word, yes;
but I sought to spare him that meet¬
ing with d’Artois, and from the
vengeance of the Master.”

“And did you succeed?”

“No. Santiago detected the trick
before it was absolutely too late,
leaped into his car, and drove fiercely
into the night, with still a chance to
keep his word inviolate. ’ ’

“So he fell in the duel?”

The marquis winced.

“No, cherie. He never reached the
rendezvous. A storm arose; and he
skidded on a dangerous turn, doubly
dangerous on account of the rain. The
wrecked car crushed the life out of
him. Had I but let him go, he might
have won; or at least died like a man.
. . thus I killed Santiago, my friend.
. . And this stranger from Kurdi¬
stan may have been an impostor, a
fraud. „ . Imbecile! I believed him
to be the Lord Peacock incarnate!”

Christ, what a tale! Wns it then
the Kurdish stranger whom d’Artois
had met, and almost vanquished ? The

594

WEIRD TALES

devil who had inspired the marquis
to meddle,, and’ caused the death erf
Santiago on that lonely road from
Spain? My brain reeled with the
madness of it all. . .

And then I raised my eyes again
to Tegard that marquis who chanted
sonorously to that lovely girl, serene
and calm, reclining among silken
cushions in the Adytum of Darkness,
in the very shrine of die Oriflamme
of Iniquity, face to face with its high
priest. . . and this without chang¬
ing expression, save to shake her pa¬
trician head in pity. . . what a

woman!

Had they discovered the gagged
warder? Were they returning? I
was in a devilish mess, literally.
Devils on all sides, and in an atmo¬
sphere of demonaltry.

T he girl nodded. . . sank back
among the emblazoned cushions.
Drugged. Inert. The tiny pill had
done its work.

The marquis rose, thrust the table
behind the arras; listened to the
breathing of the sleeping madonna;
straightened himself to his full height.
Madness and despair flamed in his
somber eyes; his lips drooped; his
lean cheeks were drawn. The muscles
at the point of his jaw were knotted
and quivering.. If not the devil, then
was this marquis his double: Satan
overcome with sorrow, but unrelent¬
ing.

What now? Madness was his. But
what form would it assume?

With swift, sure fingers he removed
the silver slippers of La Belle AII-
zaneau; stripped from her the glit¬
tering, iridescent gown; and then the
tenuous silk which clung to her form.

Cristo del Graof What had that
madman in mind? . .

And then he lifted her bodily from
the chaise longue, strode up the cin¬
nabar-strewn pathway toward the
shrine, ascended the altar steps, and
placed his burden upon the npraiseef,

black palms of those great hands that
reached for their prey.

Turning from the altar, he took a
small mallet and struck a gong whose
thin note shivered and hissed, with a
rustling, lingering vibration, chilling,
sighing, not full-throated as bronze
should be. And from panels on either
flank of the altar emerged those same
hooded, sheeted figures that had
passed me a short time ago, filed now
to their places and knelt before the
shrine, a vermilion crescent of de-
monaltors bowing before their chief
and their god.

One of the number, after his
salaam, arose and advanced to the
altar steps, leaned over the brazen
railing, and with a stick of rouge
marked on the side of the unconscious
girl; then a mark on her breast; and
then on her forehead a mark. At the
same time, coming from the right,
just beyond my angle of vision, were
four who pushed forward on rollers
a massive stone trough; a trough over
whose sides slopped some of the liquid
it contained. Trough? No- trough
at all, hut a sarcophagus, chiseled
with Egyptian hieroglyphics! And
is if by symmetry, there eame from
the left four others, each pair of
whom bore a mummy case. These
cases were placed on either side of the
altar, standing upright. One, the
mummy case of a man; the other, of a
woman. This I knew from their sizes,
and from the gilded masks which de¬
picted the features of the deceased.

The case of the man seemed heavy.
But those who carried the case of the
woman bore it as though it were
empty. And I wondered if indeed
that could be the case we sought;
Pierre and I.

The hooded figures, after putting
their burdens into position, resumed
their places in the crescent of devo¬
tees, leaving the marquis alone on
the altar steps, facing the shrine.

Well, and at least I need fear no
attack; for those who had passed me

THE PEACOCK’S SHADOW

595

at the gate had but doubled back and
waited behind the scenes for their
signal to reappear. It had all been
stage-setting. And it all apparently
amounted to nothing more than an
initiation of the girl into the secret
order of demonaltry. I relaxed and
let the Luger sink into its holster.

And then I noticed what under
normal circumstances I would have
noted immediately; the solution of
that which made both the marquis
and the girl seem left-handed, and
that which made the voiees seem to
come from my right, instead of from
direetly in front of me. I was look¬
ing into a mirror, into one, or three,
or some odd number of mirrors which
caused a reversal of left and right.
Had I not shrunk back into my
corner, qgainst the door jamb, I
would have noted that those who filed
past me had not come direetly to¬
ward me, but rather from one side. I
could now distinguish my image be¬
fore me, very faint, almost impercep¬
tible, yet there, nevertheless.

So! And here I was to witness an
initiation into the inner circle of
demonaltry. My fears for the girl
had been panie, and nerves, almost
hysteria. And the mummy case, the
smaller one, was doubtless that whieh
Pierre sought.

But where was Pierre? No matter.
In the morning we would return and
loot the place. . . .

The marquis, after bowing before
the shrine of the peacock, extended
his arms, ehanted in a tongue un¬
known to me. Then, after tossing in-
eense into the brazier on the altar, he
began anew, this time in French.

“Malik Taus, Standard-bearer of
Iniquity, Lord of the Outer Marches,
Prince of the Borderland, thee we re¬
vere, and before thee we bow! Hear
then our prayer, Malik Taus, Thou¬
sand-eyed Lord Peacock, Sovereign
Rebel, Dark; Prince! To thee we con¬
secrate this sacrifice on behalf of
Santiago who defied thee; and for him

we crave pardon and peace, for him
aeross the Border we raise our
prayer!”

“Amin! ’ ’ intoned the congregation,
bowing their heads to the floor. “ So
be it!”

A pause. And again the marquis
raised his voice.

“Santiago, Santiago my friend,
whose death I caused, concede to me
your pardon, and accept from me our
prayer! I who sent you to your
death, and these my servants alike
seek to make atonement!”

“Amin!”

“And this woman without like or
equal, I offer to you, Santiago; and
to you I consecrate her, to be yours
until the end of time. Santiago, you
whom I sent to your death, accept her
who is the very image and likeness of
her I loved very long ago; accept as
my peace -offering this wondrous one
who is my lost one incarnate. Santi¬
ago, in the name of Thousand-eyed
Malik Taus, I offer to you this woman
whom I shall embalm in rich spices
and wind in linen, and encase in
sycamore and enshrine beside you to
be yours for ever and ever!”

“Amin!”

Lord God! A poniard gleamed in
his upraised hand. I drew and
leveled the Luger. . . remembered
I looked into a mirror. . . dropped
my eyes, sick with horror. . ..

A blinding, awful incandescence
flared about me, illuminating that
vault with the blue-white flame of
noonday sun. . . a muffled, choked
report. . . the mirror before me

was elouded. A dense mist fogged
the air. Hooded figures rushed to
and fro, confused, colliding with each
other, clawing and rubbing their eyes,
blinded by that devastating flame.

And among them strode one not
hooded, who moved with sure, swift
certitude. Pierre d’Artois, wielding
a blackjack! Each swing brought
down a hooded figure; down they
went before those cool, deliberately

596

WEIRD TALES

placed strokes. . . one stroke, one
man . . . the cruel precision of ma¬
chinery ... the last man had taken
the count. Pierre stepped to the wall,
reached behind the arras; withdrew
his hand, snatched from the wall an
antique battle-ax, and dashed down
the passage toward me.

“Don’t touch that grill!” I
shouted.

‘ ‘ The juice, he is turned off. ’ ’

And to prove it, Pierre assaulted
that grillwork with his massive ax,
smiting fiercely, bending and de¬
forming the sturdy bars. I crawled
through, followed him back to the
Adytum of Darkness.

‘ ‘ Take the girl, ’ ’ he commanded, as,
true to his nature, and never forget¬
ting his mission, he seized the mummy
case, the one designed for a woman,
and led the way to the exit.

As I leaped to the altar railing,
lifted the still unconscious girl from
the black hands, and wrapped her in
my cape, I noted that the other mum¬
my case was empty, and that its
cover had been kicked aside.

One or two devil-worshipers stirred
and twitched. Others groaned. Strid¬
ing over that miniature battlefield, I
followed in Pierre’s trace.. And we
made good time, Pierre and I, for the
devil, though down for the count of
ten, still lurked in that awful vault.

XTo one accosted us as Pierre led
the way across the park to his
car. What a pair we were: a vermil¬
ion-robed figure embracing a mummy
case, and I, likewise robed, bearing
in my arms a girl whose hair streamed
to the ground, whose limbs gleamed
brightly in the moonlight.

Well, the madman’s jubilee ended
in Pierre’s apartment.

Lili, quite calm and magnificient
in Pierre’s silken lounge robe, sipped
a bit of cognac and took the entire af¬
fair as a matter of course, though
she did have certain regrets.

“Those lovely shoes! Monsieur
Landon, perhaps you would return
for them?” she mocked.

And then, to Pierre, “Do tell me
what it all was about.”

“Chere petite, it is a very long
story. The stolen mummy would not
interest you, directly; but my search
for Madame the Princess and—what
you call in English, her wooden neg¬
ligee, n’est-ce-pas ?—her sycamore
case is what made me cross your trail.
Voyez!”

Pierre showed us a photograph.

‘ ‘ This, Mademoiselle, does it not re¬
semble you?”

“Quelle betise!” flared Lili. “What
a notion!”

And then she admitted the re¬
semblance, acknowledged, that that
face of gilded sycamore, carved 3700
years ago, might pass as an Egyptian-
esque version of her own loveliness.

“So? It does resemble, yes? And
the painting in the chateau, that of
the mistress he adored twenty years
ago, that cou],d be your portrait of to¬
day, were not the lady’s costume a
shade out of date. Behold the suc¬
cession of resemblances, partly real,
partly fancied. That I noted, im¬
mediately. And moreover, I saw, as
did you, mon ami, that book bound in
human hide; but unlike you, I read
therefrom, many strange things.
Then those drums whose heads were
of human hide, and the arms, and all
the other trophies of death,
death. . . death which has haunted
Monsieur the Marquis, turned his
brilliant mind, and made him do this
madness which we witnessed.

“And the duel at St. Leon, two
years ago. I knew that Don Santi¬
ago was the good friend of Monsieur
the Marquis; and I knew also that
there had been something very odd
about that midnight meeting. Thus
when I saw you, Mademoiselle, all so
lovely in the sunset, I added the two
(Continued on page 718)

C-0'

CHAPTER 1

MARK DEXTER SURPRIZES HIS
FRIEND

W HEN I burst into the big
laboratory that eventful eve¬
ning I got one of the shocks
of my life, though it was merely a
trifle as compared to what was to
follow.

‘ ‘ Good Lord! ” I cried. ‘ * What on
Earth!—I knew you were doing the
Edison and Tesla stunt, Mark, but
this is the limit! What’s the idea?”

By this time we were shaking
hands and scanning each other’s
faces. It would be hard to find two
fellows so dissimilar as Mark Dex¬
ter and myself, and yet there was a
strong attraction between us. From
our first meeting, and all through our
college days, we had been inseparable.

My life in Mexico had thinned and
tanned me, but it had left me tough

“The blue fire-ray, playing on the
ground at their feet, forced them
away from the building, into the
dwarf forest.”

and strong, and as fond of sport and
the open air as ever, whereas Mark’s
chosen career had not done him any
good physically. My talented chum,
after a brilliant college life, had
“run to brain.” He was pale and
thin, his dark hair already retreating
from his intellectual forehead, his
shoulders already showing a slight
stoop. His eyes were the eyes of a
dreamer, a thinker; but for all that
there was fire, will and ambition,
strongly marked on his refined face.

“Mexico has not made an invalid
of you, that’s clear,” he said, shaking
my hand as if he would never let go.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to
see you just now.”

“Not gladder than I am to be back
home for a spell,” said I. “It’s good
to have a rest from the everlasting
sweltering heat, and brown skins, and
greasy frijoles, and all the other
southern stuff. But what on Earth
597

598

WEIRD TALES

are you doing? The place is a cross
between a munition factory and a bit
out of Dante’s Inferno. You are
making your old dad’s coin fly.”

The huge workshop, situated on a
lonely stretch of the San Mateo
coastline, was indeed a queer sight.
Circular saws were screaming
through wood. Lathes were paring
spirals of steel from spinning rods.
Giant planes were plowing along
huge slabs. Hammers tapped music¬
ally. Steam rose from monster vats.
Hungry rolls devoured strips of sil¬
very alloy. The glow of an electric
welding arc glared blindingly across
the clamor.

Mark looked lovingly at the scene.

“I daresay it seems a bit of a mess
to you, Harry—a sort of jig-saw puz¬
zle. You see, I know how the pieees
fit in. Come on and have a look at
the result of a few years of the tough¬
est bit of thinking and hard work
any man has ever done.”

Picking our way through the work¬
shop, we passed into a farther room,
a spacious and lofty place, with a
domed roof. It was clean and bare,
excepting for the strange object that
stood in a trestle framework in the
center of the floor. It was a strange
object. It was a cylinder of dull,
white metal, with a rounded, pointed
nose: a huge shell. It was quite
thirty feet high and twelve feet in
diameter. The whole surface of it
was queerly pitted and mottled.

“That’s my achievement, Harry,”
said Mark, with suppressed excite¬
ment. “Don’t say a word till we get
inside, then I’ll tell you something
I have not mentioned to a living soul
except the prince.”

“Danda Singh? He was a crank,
too, I remember. I shall be glad to
see him again.”

“He is coming this afternoon, to
meet you, ’ ’ observed Mark. * ‘ But up
here, then I’ll talk.”

I followed him up a long ladder
to an opening in the side of the great

shell—an opening protected by dou¬
ble doors—and we entered the main
chamber of the interior. It was like
a small round room, three thick glass
windows, deeply framed, breaking
the monontony of the padded walls.
There were chairs, a table, electric
lamps, and on one side a group of
coils, switches and dials. A trap-door
in the floor, lifted, revealed a dark
space filled with electric cells, a num¬
ber of labeled tanks, and a quantity
of miscellaneous stores. A trap-door
in the roof, reached by a steel ladder
fixed to the wall, disclosed in the
upper portion of the shell two beds,
with a further quantity of bins,
boxes and packages. Here were
two windows.

I suppose my face wrinkled itself
somewhat.

‘ ‘ It gets me, Mark, ’ ’ I said at last.
‘‘I don’t see daylight All very snug
and comfortable—parlor and bed¬
room, pantry under the floor, electric
light and all modern conveniences—
but what’s it for? Are you going to
stand a siege in it, or take it with
you on a journey? It looks like a
shell; but where’s the gun to shoot
it? It gets me!”

“Supposing I intend to go some¬
where in this shell, and it doesn’t
need a gun to shoot it, what then?”

“Is your head quite right, old
scout?” I asked. “If we were down
in Mexico I should say it was a touch
of fever. Yes; suppose we somehow
get this thing on the move, with you
inside, all set, what next? Where are
you going with it?”

“I don’t know exactly,” was
Mark’s staggering reply. “But in¬
side that shell I am going somewhere
—and it will be somewhere no living
being on this Earth has ever been
before!’ ’

“Steady, steady!”

“I am serious, Harry. I was al¬
ways looked on as a sort of a queer
kid at college, you know. A lecture
or a book on astronomy always inter-

THE STAR SHELL

599

ested me more than, games. Since
you went to Mexico and Dad left me
his big pile I ’ve given my brains, my
life, to thinking out and making this
shell, as you call it. That’s a good
name for it—we will call it the Star
Shell. I am going to shoot it to the
stars—and I am going in it.”

“Forget it, Mark,” said I, more in
sorrow than in anger (as the poet
cried). “If I didn’t know you so
well, I should use stronger language.
Just to humor your fancy, now, tell
me how you are going to start this
thing, and where you expect to land
with it.”

“First question’s easy enough,”
Mark replied, quietly. “The Star
Shell will be propelled by etheric
pressure, after I have cut it off from
the attraction of the Earth. I have
discovered the secret of gravitation.
The metal alloy of which the Shell is
made is of such a nature that under
a certain electric current it ceases to
possess gravitative force. It then be¬
comes subject to the outward pull of
the ether, and will be drawn away,
with rapidly increasing velocity, from
any large mass. Once started, the
Shell will leave the Earth and rush
out into space. We shall be able to
see the moon at close quarters, to
visit the stars.”

“We?” 1 gasped. “We? And
what particular planet are we to just
drop in upon? And how long—here,
hold on! I seem to remember some¬
thing about the distances being big¬
gish. You will have to get a move on
to reach Mars, for instance, 35,000,-
000 miles away at its nearest. You
would have to hustle along at a mil¬
lion miles a day to get there in five
weeks. Gee! ”

“I can’t tell what planet I shall be
able to reach,” replied Mark, in a
matter-of-fact tone. “Our first
journey will be somewhat in the na¬
ture of an experiment. As to the
time it will take to reach Mars, I can
tell you, unless the conditions of

outer space are different from my cal¬
culations. Once free of the Earth
and its atmosphere, the Star Shell
will be repelled outward at about 40
miles per second. That would see us
at Mars in ten days, or at the moon
in an hour and three-quarters.”

“And we are going in a record-
breaker like that?”

“At the least, we are to go in it
when ready,” drawled a quiet, cul¬
tured voice behind us.

I turned to face Dandy—Prince
Danda Singh—the young Sikh who
had become Mark’s fast friend, ad¬
mirer and helper. I could tell by the
gleam in his black eyes that he had
been standing listening to us for some
time. We shook hands, but I shook
my head.

CHAPTER 2

THE STAR SHELL PLUNGES
INTO SPACE

‘ ‘ T know that it, to you, must seem
strange, very,” said Prince
Danda. (He had a quaint way of
making up English sentences, and no
amount of teaching ever quite cured
him.) “But, to us, who upon this
thing have thought and worked so
much, it. not strange does seem, but
most clear and sure. We our lives
are prepared to risk, and we ask you
to go with us—if afraid you be not.
There should be at least three of us,
and better would be four, if we knew
someone else whom we could trust.”

“And you expect me to believe this
hare-brained junk, you precious pair
of.scientific bugs?” I cried. “Cut it
out; I can take a joke with anybody.
What’s the real idea back of this
thing? Honest, now?”

“We are in dead earnest, Harry,”
said Mark, laying his hand affection¬
ately on my shoulder. “I mean ex¬
actly what I say. In this shell I in¬
tend to leave the Earth, to visit the
planets. It is a great venture, a ter¬
rible risk, and we may never return,

WEIRD TALES

bat I am going to take the risk and
so is Dandy. We should like you to
come with us.”

I could hardly resist that, nor
could I read anything but sober sin¬
cerity in both their faces.

‘‘Can you give me any sort of
proof!” I asked.

‘ ‘ We ean do that tonight, Hal. We
have already tried the experiment
successfully. We have a small model
shell, which we can shoot out into
space with a cargo of dynamite and
clockwork detonator set for ten min¬
utes. In ten minutes, allowing for
the atmosphere retarding it some¬
what, the bomb will be more than
20,000 miles away. If we don’t see
the explosion we shall know it really
has traveled so far. What’s that?”

A noise in the outer room, as of
someone blundering over an obstacle,
drew us to the doorway. The ladder
was shaking, as though someone had
hurriedly descended, but there was
no one in sight. Mark ran down and
called to a mechanic. The man was
not sure, but fancied he had seen
somebody hurrying through the work¬
shop. Another man said it was the
“gent” who had been there with the
prince a time or two.

My friends looked grave.

“Must have been Professor Nor-
den,” said Mark. “He may have
overheard us. If so, he is the only
person besides ourselves who knows
my secret. Even the workmen here,
who have built the Shell, and are
busy on other experimental work for
me, have no idea of my plans.”

“Who is this professor?”

“He is—or once was—a mathemat¬
ical genius,” replied Dandy. “No
end of honors has he got, and a brain
that was once most wonderful. He
my tutor was at one time, and I have
brought him to the laboratory occa¬
sionally. Many questions be asks,
and mueh he evidently suspects. If
he our secret knows, he is dishonest

enough to steal it and clever enough
to use it.”

“He once hinted that the control
of gravitation was an ambition of his
own,” added Mark. “I ought to
have been more careful, more afraid
of him—and I should have been but
for the low position to which he has
sunk. He drinks. Spirits make a
madman of him.”

“In that case I shouldn’t worry,”
said I. “Boozers never do much
good. And now see here, you two.
Are you giving me the straight goods
about this business? If you are 111
come along tonight and see your ex¬
periment. If not, cut me out of your
visiting list. ’ ’

“I can only repeat that I am in
real earnest,” was Mark’s answer.
“My whole soul is bound up in this
adventure. Nervous as I am in some
things, I am ready to risk my life.”

“And so am I,” assented Prince
Danda Singh.

“I suppose Ill have to believe
you,” I sighed. “Well, as soon as
you show me there’s a dog’s chance
of getting back safely to Earth, Ill
consider things.”

“I’ll prove what I have said to¬
night, Harry.”

Mark spoke calmly, confidently,
but little did we three imagine how
sudden and complete that proof
would be.

T he night was mild and the sky
fairly clear of cloud. The stars
were a brilliant sight as we walked
across and let ourselves into the dark
and deserted laboratory. Picking
our way through the maze of lathes,
hammers, planes, forges, we reached
the doorway of the inner room where
the great Shell stood gleaming in si¬
lent mystery. Mark looked puzzled.

‘ ‘ I thought I locked the door when
we came out this afternoon. It is
closed, certainly, but not locked.
Anyhow, there seems no one about.”
“And here the model is,” observed

THE STAR SHELL

601

Dandy, pointing to a small shell on
the floor. “It is loaded already, and
merely needs the contact making and
the time fuse setting.”'

Whilst Dandy had been speaking,
the inventor had been working the
mechanism of the revolving roof, and
now a great clear space of star-
strewn sky appeared in the lofty
dome. Then he turned to me.

“Before we go any farther, Harry,
I had better explain one or two little
items. This small model is made of
the same alloy as the big Shell.
When charged with positive electric¬
ity this alloy ceases t® have weight,
to be subject to gravitation: it is
then at the mercy of the ether-strain
that everywhere opposes gravitation.
According to the strength of the cur¬
rent supplied, and the sections
charged, the Shell can be wholly or
partly robbed of attractive power. A
negative charge reverses the action.
You follow me?”

“Yes, it's as clear as mud, 0
King?”’ said I. “If the Shell can be
cut off from the attraction of the
Earth, it will just stop where it is—
the Earth will run away from it and
leave it, a lone little orphan, in
space. ’ r

“You are coming on, Harry. But
that is not all. By charging the
Shell in sections I can travel about
as I please—make it respond to the
pull of any heavy body in any direc¬
tion—leave it to be drawn to the
moon, to Mars, or Jupiter—or pull it
back to Earth. Its speed, as I told
you, when moving freely out there,
will be not less than forty miles a
second. It may really be far more.*’'

“Go easy,” I groaned.

“And therefore, supposing we cut
loose and head for Jupiter—an ex¬
treme case, hut possible, situated as
the Earth and Jupiter are at this mo¬
ment, with the giant planet about
400,000,000 miles away—we should
reach our destination in something
like seventeen weeks. ”

“More than four months shut up
in that Shell, shooting through
space?” I shouted. ‘‘Nothing doing!
I’m game for a lot, but eount me out
of this. Of course you are prepared
for a trifling trip like that ? You ean
carry enough food, and water, and
air, and power, to just trot there and
back again?”

“The Shell is already fitted and
provisioned, ready for any reasonable
emergency, ready to start at any mo¬
ment, Mark replied, rather nettled.
“Of course, not tonight, as I don’t
particularly want to go- to* Jupiter,
But whether you eome with us or net,
we shall go somewhere. HeBo-E
What the-?”

A sudden clanging noise rang
shrilly through the place, as if some¬
one had struck file Shell a sharp blow.

“There is somebody in the Shell t* T
I shouted, and we. rushed to the lad¬
der.

The prince was up first, Mark close
on his heels. As the two of them
stepped over the threshold of the
outer of the double doors, the inner
was being closed from within. Some
person inside was trying to shut us
out. There was a tough struggle,
and not until I added my weight
could we force our way in. When
the door gave at last it went sudden¬
ly, and the three of us fell inward,
sprawling over one another.

We were on our feet in a jiffy—to
find ourselves facing the muzzle of a
wicked-looking revolver in the hand
of Professor Norden. I knew him
on sight, though I had never seen
him before—this short, stout, red¬
faced, red-nosed, spectacled, bald-
headed scientist. He looked what he
was—a mongrel, part German, part
Foie, part Jew—and as spiteful as a
baffled ferret.

“The first one who steps forward
will die!” he cried, in a hoarse sort
of scream. “You will go out—go
back ?”

“What are you doing here, pro-

602

WEIRD TALES

fessor ? ’ ’ asked Mark, white with
rage, and also a hit shaky about the
gills. “Trying to steal my secret?”

“Already I know it, young pup,”
snarled Norden. “And I am going
to use it. Get out, all of you. If you
don’t go in two minutes, I shoot.”

This was where I thought it time
to interfere. This was where ath¬
letics came in rather more useful than
mere brains. We were not standing
so very far apart, and before Norden
or the others knew what was happen¬
ing, I had seized the professor’s out¬
stretched arm in a ju-jitsu grip. He
yelled with pain and dropped the
weapon to the floor. Then I closed
with him, singing out to the prince to
lend me a hand.

We nearly downed him, but he
fought with the ferocity of a trapped
beast, and we were not at all pre¬
pared for his next move. It was a
good thing that Mark stood out of the
scrap, and kept his eyes skinned, and
saw what was coming and knew what
to do.

In the struggle the three of us
lurched to the side of the Shell,
where the operating levers were fixed.
Before we grasped his intention, the
professor shot out a free arm and
hurled all his weight, in one last
flare-up of will-power, upon the start¬
ing handle, the lever of the switch
that sent the current into the metal
framework and cut us off from grav¬
itation.

“At least I shall take you with
me!” he gasped.

I can’t sort out the sensations of
the next few moments. I have a
hazy, blurred recollection of seeing
Mark, a cry of horror on his lips,
rush to the doorway and swing the
metal slabs to their places with a ter¬
rific clang; of a sudden, short, fierce
spasm of heat that made the perspir¬
ation start from every pore of the
skin; of a fearful roar of sound and a
still more fearful silence; of being
pressed into the floor, shaken, bruised,

and rendered breathless; of a feeling
as if my head were swelling, swelling
to the bursting-point; and then a
merciful unconsciousness came.

Of course, I knew now what had
happened. Professor Norden, in his
frenzy, had started the Star Shell on
its marvelous journey into the un¬
known. We had left the Earth. We
were flying through the black void of
space; the trackless infinite where
eternal silence reigns.

CHAPTER 3

IN THE GRIP OF A FRIGHTFUL
SPEED

I t seemed almost at once that I re¬
gained my senses, but according
to my watch I had been out of every¬
thing for quite two hours. And I
was the first to recover, being the
most physically fit of the four.

When I struggled to my feet—with
a painful effort, for I felt as though
weighted down with tons of lead—I
saw that Dandy was lying motionless
under a broken chair, the professor
sprawling across him, and poor old
Mark near the door, with a drying
clot of blood on his right cheekbone.

Here was a pretty kettle of fish!
It was some time before I got my
thoughts sorted out sufficiently to re¬
member where I was and what had
happened. Stiff and sore all over—
stiffer and sorer than I had ever felt
before—I dragged myself to one of
the windows and looked out.

Though the night is familiar
enough to me now, that first glimpse
of the sky, seen from the flying Shell,
was an awful shock. I can hardly de¬
scribe it.

The sky was everywhere an in¬
tense, dead, inky black. The stars
shone unwinkingly, and in all their
varied colors—red stars, blue stars,
green, yellow, white. Right amongst
them, glaring fiercely, with a halo of
luminous haze surrounding it, and
fringed with red flame, glowed the

THE STAR SHELL

glorious sun. Below me, round and
pale, and patterned with its seas and
continents, lay the Earth, a globe
seeming more than three times the
size of the full moon. Near it shone
the pale crescent of the moon itself.

I daresay the others would have
been more or less prepared in their
minds to face this strange sight of
sun -and earth and moon and stars
all shining together in a sky of dense
blaekness, but I was the first man
whose eyes had ever seen it. The
sensation was creepy, uncanny. I
could not know, until later Mark ex¬
plained the matter to me, that light
vibrations traverse the mysterious
ether of spaee invisibly, and only
when they impinge upon arresting
material, such as the gaseous envelope
of our planet, can we receive the im¬
pression of light. ‘ ‘ Possibly, ’ ’ Mark
stated, “ it is a sense limitation, and to
beings more highly organized space
might be bathed in superb brilliance:
just as we are convinced that certain
insects perceive colors and sounds un¬
known and inconceivable to us.”

I looked down at the old Earth we
had perhaps left forever, and it
seemed to me to be growing smaller,
lessening rapidly as I gazed. In a
sort of panic I rushed across to Mark
and tried to rouse him. He was
heavy and senseless as a log, and I
began to wonder whether I should
find myself shut up in this terrible
Shell with three dead men. The in¬
terior, bathed in sunlight, was just
comfortably warm, but at that
thought I felt my forehead go damp
with cold sweat.

However, my chum opened his eyes
at last and wriggled to a sitting po¬
sition.

“You look bad, Harry,” he said,
eyeing me quizzically, after a glanee
at the star-lit windows. “I see you
have grasped the situation.”

“Thank goodness you have come
round!” T said, fervently. “Where

are we, how fast are we going, when
shall we stop?”

“Just what I want to know,” re¬
plied Mark, rapidly recovering his
self-confidence. “One thing is cer¬
tain—my invention is a success!
The Shell works! We have left the
Earth; we are the first travelers in
space!”

“Yes, but where are we going,
Mark?”

“That’s where you know as much
as I do, Harry. Though I made the
Shell, I never intended to start it on
its journey in this breakneck fashion.
Norden was mad. I must have a look
at my meters and registers. One
thing I am afraid of already is that
the Shell is going far faster than I
calculated. ’ ’

“What do you mean?”

“This feeling of heavy weight.
Cut off from gravitation we ought to
be able to float about at will, as light
as feathers. Instead of that, we
seem held down to the floor. It
brings Professor Einstein’s ideas to
mind. The Shell must be moving
with a perfectly frightful and accel¬
erating velocity to give us this heavy
feeling. We had better waken the
others now. ’ ’

We pulled the professor off Dandy
and soon had the latter alive and kick¬
ing. Then we roused Norden,
grinned at his grimaces and grunts,
and went into committee to report
progress. At least, we three listened;
Mark did the talking.

“We are in a terrible fix,” he said,
after an anxious examination of his
instruments, and a long gaze at the
magic sky. “It is possible that we
shall never return to the Earth—that
we shall die in this Shell —and it is
all your doing, Norden. It is your
mad folly that has made this journey
an insane shot in the dark instead of
a reasonable experiment. You have
shown yourself an enemy, and we
shall have to treat you as one from
now on. We can’t trust you.”

G04

WEIRD TALES

“But—but,’’ stammered the scared
scientist, “but I am in peril just as
much as you are. I was mad, but
surely now we are all in equal danger
we can be friends. We must work
together for all our sakes. ”

“I’m not risking anything,’’ said
Mark, sharply. “You have only
yourself to blame. We shall watch
you, so that you won’t have much
chance to do any more dirty work.
And now listen carefully, all of you.
The Star Shell is going faster than I
had allowed for; the intense cold of
space affects the metal of it so as to
magnify the repulsive energy many
times. We are now moving far more
than forty miles a second, which I
thought would be the limit. And I
have reversed the current, so that we
ought to be slowing down.’’

“But what is our speed?’’ asked
Dandy.

“That’s just what I can’t tell
you,” Mark answered. “Look at
this dial. The pointer on it, at forty
miles a second, should revolve once
every quarter of a minute. Every
revolution of it represents a distance
of 600 miles.”

“But there is no pointer; it’s
gone!” we cried, together.

“That’s where you are all wrong.
The pointer is there now, but it is
whizzing round so fast that you can’t
see it. You know that a wheel can
spin so rapidly that the spokes be¬
come invisible. Well, that is the mat¬
ter with my pointer. What our speed
may be I can’t even guess. If the
needle were to slow down just
enough to show it on the dial as a
blur, that would prove the Shell to
be traveling not less than six million
miles an hour. And I can’t even see
it as a blur!”

Professor Norden, groveling on the
floor, groaned heavily. The prince
and I stared at Mark, and then at the
speed dial, and then back again at
Mark. There didn’t seem to be any
words suitable for the occasion.

The silence in the Shell, flying so
soundlessly through the black void,
was like the silence of the grave.

CHAPTER 4

RACING AN ASTEROID

“npHEN what can we do?” asked
Prince Danda, at last.

“Nothing—nothing but wait,” said
Mark. “Now that I have reversed
the electric current, gravitation will
assert itself in time and check our
frightful momentum. We shall be
approaching Jupiter by then, per¬
haps. Already we are near the orbit
of Mars. The danger that next
threatens us is the risk of banging
into one of the asteroids—that crowd
of little planets careering about be¬
tween Mars and Jupiter. They are
such an erratic'crowd—all shapes and
sizes, and in all sorts of orbits. By
switching gravitation off and on, I
must try to dodge any inconvenient
ones. ’ ’

‘ ‘ It has just struck me that I could
do with a bite and a drink,” said I,
to relieve the tension. ‘ ‘ It gets
monotonous, gazing out of the win¬
dows.”

Mark went below and presently
came up with a hamper, a kettle and
a coffee-pot. He opened a small door
in the padded wall on the sunny side
of the Shell, and put the kettle in.
Five minutes later he drew it out, the
water boiling.

“Electric radiator in there?” I
asked.

“Cheaper heat than that, Harry.
It is simply a little oven in the Shell’s
wall, warmed by the sun. If you
were to touch the metal exterior on
that side, in spite of the cold of spaee,
you would bum your hand. Pass
your cups up.”

“My nerves aren’t what they
were,” grumbled Professor Norden.
“Have you any brandy aboard?”

“Yes, but only for emergencies;
not for you, ’ ’ said Mark.

THE STAR SHELL

605

There was a cunning gleam in the
professor’s eyes, and I guess that
was the moment he began to plan
more mischief.

After we had finished the meal,
Mark put us through what he called
“drill.” He showed us all the work¬
ing of the Shell —the cylinders of
oxygen, the apparatus for absorbing
the poisonous gases evolved in breath¬
ing; the supplies of food, water and
electric energy; the operating and re¬
cording instruments; the double
doors for ejecting undesirable ob¬
jects; and the cameras for taking
still and animated photographs.
Then we portioned out our eating
and sleeping periods by clock-time.

It was an hour after the meal that
the space-sickness seized us. I don’t
want to go into details, but try and
imagine the worst sea-sickness you
have ever experienced or heard of,
and make it a hundred times worse,
and you will have some faint idea of
the awful sensations we suffered
from. Our poor internals, cut off
from gravitation, must have been in
a terrible muddle. We lay and rolled
about the floor in agony for hours,
and not one of us cared a hang
whither we went nor what was hap¬
pening..

At last the worst was over, and as
soon as I felt well enough to crawl
to the nearest window, I fetched the
others up with a shout.

“A planet—a world, rushing to
meet us!”

Mark, limp and haggard-faced,
came to my side.

“One of the asteroids—one of the
big ones,” he said. “It is moving
right across our path—or we are mov¬
ing across its path. We shall want
all the speed we can get, if we are
to clear it.”

He cut off all gravitation once
more. The brilliant object, already
looking twice the size of the full
moon, was rushing along in its orbit
at several miles a minute, but com¬

pared with our own meteoric speed
it seemed to be merely drifting

toward us—drifting, with irritating
slowness, but also with irritating

sureness, to put itself right in our
way.

“Here we are in space, with bil¬
lions of miles of elbow-room, and yet
this snippety lost world must try apd
be in the same spot!” mused Mark,
savagely. “It will be a near thing,
if we miss it at all. And if we hit
it, well, good-bye! We shall be

smashed like an empty egg-shell

thrown at a wall.”

Nearer and nearer came the aster¬
oid, and we saw it for what it was—
a round, bare, rocky world, void of
sea or river or visible life, with not
even the suspicion of an atmosphere.
The glare of sunlight reflected from
its lifeless surface alm'ost blinded us.
Nearer and nearer it came, and we
held our breaths in an agony of sus¬
pense.

There was a jar, a shock, that
shook every loose object in the Shell,
and now the asteroid was on our other
side, receding swiftly.

“We are clear!” cried Dandy.
“The danger is over. We grazed in
passing—a touch that of the slightest
was. ’ ’

“Good old Star Shell!” I shouted,
in the relief of the moment. “But
what’s up with you, Mark? You
don’t smile.”

1 ‘ I am wondering what next,
Harry. Now that we are clear of the
asteroids, there is nothing between us
and the planet Jupiter. If I had in¬
tended to go there, I couldn’t have
started the Shell at a better time and
place, but I didn’t. Even at the
speed we are now traveling it will
take too long to go there and back
with our present supply of air. And
I can’t even see the pointer on the
dial yet. To put it bluntly, the posi¬
tion is this: if the Star Shell takes us
as far as Jupiter, and we can’t make
a good landing, and we don’t find

WEIRD TALES

breathable air to fill up with again,
we can’t even start back. And if the
Shell goes on much longer before it
slows down and begins to return, we
shan’t have enough air left to see us
home. That’s all.”

“That’s all!”

“Well, not quite,” said Mark, fix¬
ing his glance on lie professor, who
shivered and shrank away, as if he
knew what was coming. “There are
four of us. If there were only three,
we could last out longer. If there
were only two, those two would have
a sporting chance of getting back
alive. You have all noticed our dou¬
ble doors! We open the inner, put in
the narrow space any object—or per¬
son—we want to get rid of, shut the
inner and then open the outer door.
That object—or person—is thrown
out into space and will no longer
trouble us! You see my meaning!”

“Not that!—ah, not that!”
shrieked Professor Norden. “I have
done wrong, I know, but spare me!
Not that!”

“It is not yet time to decide, but
when the time comes that is what we
must do, ” said Mark. “You, profes¬
sor, have brought us into this peril,
and your life is of the least value.
You will be the first to go. After
that! We shall draw lots.”

We shuddered. This was where
old Mark scored. He hadn’t the
prizefighter’s physical courage, but
he had what is a far finer thing—
mental courage. He saw what had to
be done if we were not all to be lost,
and he did not flinch from action.

“And meantime, it’s your turn to
have a nap, Harry. You others had
better leave me alone to watch the
dial and make some calculations.
Good night.”

CHAPTER 5
A FROZEN WORLD

t seemed a tall order—to go aloft
and climb into bed and try to
sleep—to go to sleep in a huge shell

shooting through space at perhaps
10,000,000 miles an hour—out where
no human beings had ever been be¬
fore—beyond the orbit of Mare, be¬
yond the asteroids, on the way to
Jupiter. To go to sleep, not knowing
whether I should ever see the Earth
again, even whether I should ever
wake.

But the close air, the limpness that
followed the siekness, and the nervous
strain, told on me. I went fast
asleep. Dandy woke me suddenly.

“The time it is to be quick,” he
said. “We are at the end of the
journey nearly.' Already the big
planet to us is very near. The speed
has fallen, so that Mark can control
us. We upon one of the moons must
land.”

I sprang up, wonderfully re¬
freshed, with a strange feeling of
lightness and relief. I felt quite ac¬
tive as I dived through the trap-door
and rattled down the ladder.

“I see you are feeling the loss of
weight,” said Mark, without lifting
his eyes from the end of a small tele¬
scope or his hand from the operating
switch. “The Star Shell has lost its
momentum at last and got down to
normal speed. There is Jupiter, and
yonder, coming our way very consid¬
erately, is Europa, the planet’s sec¬
ond satellite. We have overshot the
planet itself, and I am trying to come
to rest here, and find some fresh air.
Be ready for a bit of rough and tum¬
ble. I only hope we land before the
dark. ’ ’

The sight from the windows was
wonderful. Around us shone the
host of the stars, and behind us, the
sun, shrunken now to a quarter of his
usual size, glared across the void.
Quite near, and growing bigger every
moment, was a great white crescent
world, larger than the full moon—
Europa, the second satellite of Jupi¬
ter. As it moved, the shadow of
night was creeping over it. Not far
away, its huge bulk filling a great

THE STAR SHELL

607

space of sky, hung Jupiter himself,
the giant planet, 1200 times vaster
than the Earth. It was all belted
with concentric rings of cloud, and
turning so quickly on its axis that we
could see the motion distinctly.

But it was Europa that interested
us, for there it was we must land and
find the life-giving air we were in
need of.

“How shall we know whether it
has an atmosphere, and if it he
breathable?” I asked.

“I have a special little attachment
with valves. There. When we land,
I open the outer end and close it
quickly. This tube will then be filled
with whatever vapor there may be
outside; and a simple chemical test
will show at once what we want to
know. Look: outwe shall soon know
the best—or the worst.”

The satellite had seemed to be
rushing headlong upon us, but now,
under Mark’s skilful guidance of the
Star SheU, its motion settled down to
a steady crawl Mile by mile we
drew nearer to that dazzling creseent,
until it appeared to us that we were
nose-diving into a huge, euplike val¬
ley. More working of those wonder¬
ful levers, and the Shell tilted, fell
sideways, turned turtle with a jerk
that scattered us all over the floor,
and then came to rest upon its base
with hardly a tremor.

We were at rest on the surface of
another world. And not a moment
too soon, for, almost on the instant of
landing, the sun sank below the hori¬
zon and we were plunged into the
night. We were enveloped in dense
darkness, and the Star SheU went icy
cold—bitter cold that struck to our
vitals and numbed us in every limb.

Mark switched up the lights within,
and then, pressing a knob, turned on
the great searchlight in the top of
the Star SheU. The' long, intense
beam of radiance flashed out and
swung around us, illuminating a
scene of mystery. The ground was

carpeted with stunted brushwood,
and over all that bleak, withered
landscape snow was falling.- A ris¬
ing flood of white filled up the hal¬
lows. As the white flakes fell they
thickened into streams and drifts,
and whilst we stared, the whole ex¬
panse that we could see was deep in
its wintry mantle. There was no sign
of life? the stars shone sharply in as
black a sky as that of outer space.
The silence was awful, and the cold,
in spite of the now active radiators,
penetrated to our bones,

Mark extinguished the searchlight
and turned to his test-tube.

“For the air now,” cried Professor
Norden eagerly. “It will be cold,
but it will be fresh—it wifi, be pure;
and we shall live!”

■Without a word, Mark operated
the valves of his apparatus. He drew
the tube from its air-tight funnel,
brought it to the table, and made his
test.

“I was afraid so,” he said, as if
speaking to himself, though he looked
at the trembling scientist. “There is
no air. The tube is empty. Europa
has at present no atmosphere. ’ ’

CHAPTER 6

A DEAD WORLD COMES TO
LIFE

‘ ‘ XTo air? Ah, now I understand! ”
cried Norden, throwing him¬
self into a seat in an attitude of utter
despair.

“But I don’t see that, Mark,” said
I. “You must have made a mistake.
There must he air here. We saw'
dead shrubs, and running water, and
snow.”

“Of course. Snow it could not, if
no atmosphere there were,” added
Danda Singh.

“That wasn’t snow you saw at all
—it is not snow that is at this moment
lying about us,” was Mark’s aston¬
ishing statement. “Doesn’t the black
sky and the cold and the silence tell

608

WEIRD TALES

you anything? What you call snow
is simply liquid and solid air.”

“Gently, gently, my son!”

“Fact, Harry. You know that the
moon always turns the same face to
the Earth: this satellite does the same
to Jupiter. Every portion of its sur¬
face, during the journey round the
planet, is alternately flooded with
sunlight and exposed to the cold of
space. This cold is so intense that
even air must freeze unless in great
volume. This satellite, about the
same size as our moon, has never had
a deep atmosphere. It probably re¬
tains a few shreds in the deeper val¬
leys, such as this into which we have
fallen just at sunset. In the day,
this air melts and forms a thin skin
of atmosphere, and, if I am right, a
kind of vegetation grows up and as
quickly seeds and withers before the
night comes again. The Star Shell is
now on a dead and silent world, ly¬
ing amongst drifts of frozen air.”

“Then we have only to wait for
daylight, after all?” exclaimed Nor-
den with fresh hope. “And that will
be—let me see—yes, about forty-three
hours, as Europa revolves around
Jupiter in less than three days. We
shall not have much time to investi¬
gate things.”

“Time enough, I fancy,” said
Mark. ‘ ‘ I intend to get some wonder^
ful photographs, for one item. Then
we must fill up our tanks. At pres¬
ent we have just to grin and bear this
terrible cold as best we can till the
sun comes to set us free.”

We bore it, but without the grin¬
ning. We shivered and sneezed,
cowering over the glowing radiators,
wrapped in all the rags we had, and
not one of us could do more than
doze off at intervals through that
long, long night. Shining above us
like a huge moon, but twenty times
larger than the moon appears to us
on Earth, and always in the same
spot overhead, was Jupiter. Mark
reeled off paragraphs about it—its

weight, size, mass; its four large sat¬
ellites and its five tiny ones; its dis¬
tance from the sun, its rapid rota¬
tion, its cloud-belts; but we were all
too stiff with cold to take much in¬
terest.

And then we saw the gleam of sun¬
light on a distant hill, and as the
quick dawn leapt into the valley, the
miracle of the four seasons was com¬
pressed into forty-three hours.

Perhaps you won’t believe me, but
you have not been to Europa and
seen it. The line of the dawn swept
across the valley like a line of living
fire. As it came, the frozen air
melted, ran into liquid, rose in steam,
dissipated into invisible vapor. The
ground cracked. There was a stirring
in the forest of dead brushwood, and
a million new shoots jumped up,
pushing their green fronds eagerly to
the light.

Warmed by the sunshine, fascinat¬
ed by the sight, we stood at the win¬
dows watching the plants grow.
They were long, sinuous trees run¬
ning their knotted branches along the
ground, each foot or so sending up
leafy branches. They were in a ter¬
rible hurry, eager to live the short
life that would be theirs before dark¬
ness and winter came down upon
them again. Amongst this sudden,
furiously active foliage, a cloud of
dusky insects appeared and hovered.

“It’s a nightmare!” cried Norden.
“See how these hungry plants fight!
They strangle one another in their
mad battle for sunlight and air and
room! ’ ’

Mark put out another tube and
made a second test.

“We have seen a dead world come
to life,” he said, “let us go out for
a walk. There is air around the
Shell now, quite breathable. Just
one word of warning. As on our own
moon, the attraction here will be one-
sixth of what it is on Earth. If you
try to jump a couple of feet, you

THE STAR SHELL

will leap a dozen. Now for the out¬
side. ’ ’

We swung open the heavy doors,
let- down the ladder, and descended.
The air was warm and moist, but to
us, after our long confinement, it
was beautifully fresh. In my eager¬
ness I sprang quite fifteen feet at the
first jump—and landed in the
clutehes of a vicious family of yellow¬
leaved plants.

Their twining, clinging tendrils,
shooting out in all directions, seized
me fiercely round each leg and threw
me to the ground. I got up, luekily
saving my hands from a similar fate,
and pulled the left foot free. The
right, wriggle and tug as I would, I
could not loosen. Shouting to the
others to look out, I got my pocket-
knife to hack through the clutching
fiber's.

It was an awful job. That twining
vegetal arm held me in a viselike
grip, and the more- I hacked the
tighter it held. It wouldn’t keep
still, either, and was as hard to cut
as tough rubber.

At last, with an aehing arm, I
managed to win out, and had time to
look around. So fast did this furious
forest grow that the tops of its
branches were now as high as an av¬
erage man, and one-third of the
Star Shell itself was hidden by the
trees. Here and there a few brown
and yellow blooms already glistened
in the sunlight. And when I reached
the others, I found them all in the
same plight as I had been. They
were all fighting the fieree, wriggling
plants.

I lent a hand, picking my way very
carefully, watching every footstep,
and after about an hour’s hard work
we were back at the base of the
Shell, standing in the clear space
covered by its shadow, where the
plants had not yet arrived.

“This most strange is,” said
Danda. “Can we not this place ever
leave because of these snaky things?”

‘ ‘ For me I leave not the Star Shell
again,” declared Norden. “My legs
are all bruised and sore.. I will stay
here and see that the air-tanks are
filled whilst the rest of you go ex¬
ploring. ’ ’

Mark looked quizzically at the
speaker, and it was evident that the
same thought was in all our minds.

“We haven’t asked you what you
intend to do, professor,” he said,
very quietly. “If you won’t come
along, well, you won’t; but one of
us must remain to keep an eye on you.
As I shall want Harry, it must be
your pleasure, Prince, to stop and en¬
tertain our distinguished prisoner.”

“But how are we to get through
this fighting tangle?”

“It will be easy enough in a few
hours, I hope,” said our wonderful
pal. “You see, when the first rush
of spring fever is over, and the plants
have covered and appropriated most
of the ground, they will get busy on
leaf and flower and seed, and cease
to be dangerous. Then you will have
noticed that even now they are not
very active in the shadows and on
the higher ground.”

So we waited, and then, taking
food and water, a camera, and a few
scientific instruments, Mark and I set
out, leaving the professor and the
prince, very glum and cool toward
each other, squatting at the foot of
the Shell.

“We mustn’t be away more than
ten or twelve hours, and in that time
we can eover a lot of ground and
collect a lot of information. We are
going east, and the farther we go
the more advanced this queer vegeta¬
tion should be. Look out, there!”

It was treacherous going for a
time. We had to step very gingerly
to avoid the clutching tendrils of that
dwarf forest, but after a dozen miles
(remember we could walk six times as
far and as fast as on Earth) the trees
became less troublesome. They were
full of leaf and bud and bursting

610

WEIRD TALES

flower, and their undergrowth made
a carpet of springy, fibrous matting
for us. Later on we actually found
some of these quick workers in fruit
and seed. I wanted to taste the small
brown berries, but Mark wouldn’t
hear of it.

“Can’t afford to risk losing you
here, Harry. Put a few in the bag.
These specimens will puzzle our bot¬
anists when we get back to old Eng¬
land. ’ ’

“When. Any plans for our re¬
turn?”

“If all is well when w6 reach the
Star Shell again,” Mark replied, “I
propose to start right away. We
shall only need to cut off the attrac¬
tion of Jupiter and Europa for a few
minutes, and the pull of the sun will
do the rest. How’s the time? Well,
a little bit farther, to the top of this
ridge, and then we had better turn
back. ’ ’

We climbed the ridge, finding few
plants there, and 'the air thin and cold
as we ascended, and peered down into
the valley beyond.

It was a cuplike depression, smaller
though similar to the hollow into
which the Star Shell had fallen, full
of the same sort of growth. But there
was something else, something that
gave us a thrill, a sudden shock.

In the middle of the valley, per¬
haps three miles away, a dazzling
white object rose above the forest
growth. In that thin, still atmos¬
phere we could see it distinctly and
noted that it was smooth and round,
with a domed roof. It stood in a
clearing.

“What is it, Mark?” I asked,
clutching my friend’s arm.

“I don’t know, but I think it is a
sign of life—of intelligent life. Come
on; we have just time to go and ex¬
amine it before we turn back.”

CHAPTER 7
THE WHITE DOME

G oing in huge, bounding leaps,
clearing three or four yards at
a stride, we went down the slope
toward the singular white dome. In
less than a quarter of an hour we had
reached it.

It stood in a circular, open space—
a level piece of ground beaten flat,
upon which the berried plants did not
intrude a single root—and it was
perfectly round, perfectly smooth,
purely white.

“It gets me, Harry,” said Mark,
as we paced around this strange
building wonderingly. “It is an
artificial structure, that’s plain; but
what it can be for, and what sort of
living beings have made it, I can’t
even give a guess.”

“Looks as much like an astronom¬
ical observatory as anything,” I ru¬
minated. “Only I don’t see a tele¬
scope sticking out. Still, those
marks up there look like the edges of
a possible opening.”

“I believe you have hit it, Harry!
But, if it is an observatory, where
and who are the astronomers, and
how do they get in or out? Hullo!
What do you think of this? Some
sort of door, if I am not mistaken.”

In our walk round we had come to
a definitely marked circle drawn on
the smooth, white wall. In the center
of the circle a ring-bolt was fixed.

A ring-bolt! Here was forged
metal—evidence of life indeed, and
of life akin to our own.

‘ ‘ Seems a strange sort of door,
anyhow,” said I.

It was strange. We couldn’t do
anything with it. We pulled and
tugged, we pressed and pushed, tried
to turn it, worked it up and down,
but nothing happened. We banged
on the wall, using the ring as a
knocker; we shouted with all the
strength of our lungs; nothing hap¬
pened.

THE STAR SHELL

611

“It’s a bad egg; if the occupiers
are in, they are out,’’ said I. “At
least, to us. Isn’t it time we started
back? I’m feeling a bit nervous, out
of sight of the Star Shell. Suppose
anything went wrong. Fancy being
left here to face the night!”

“I don’t fancy it, Harry. We had
better have a snack and a drink, take
a photograph of this thing, and
start.”

It was whilst my chum had the
camera poised in his hands that the
inmates of the building revealed
their existence. The dome slowly re¬
volved, a portion slid sideways, and
a shining metal tube projected
through the narrow opening. But it
certainly was not a telescope.

“Look out, Mark; they are going
to shoot! ” I shouted.

There was no sound, no flash. A
sort of blue ray came out of the tube
and struck the camera. The metal
glowed hot, the cover smoked, and as
Mark threw it down with a cry of
pain and astonishment, the thing
burst into flame.

We shouted, holding up our hands,
but the tube still pointed at us, and
the blue fire-ray, playing on the
ground at our feet, forced us back
and back, away from the building,
into the dwarf forest. Of the beings
in the building we obtained no
glimpse.

“They don’t want us, and they ob¬
ject to being ‘took,’ that’s very evi¬
dent,” said I, dragging my reluc¬
tant friend away. “If we don’t want
to be frizzled up, we have to beat it,
so get busy.”

We “got busy,” and as soon as
they saw we were retreating, the in¬
visible ones drew in their tube and
closed the opening.

“Very unfriendly of them,” com¬
mented Mark, as we tramped back
toward the Shell. “I suppose they
could somehow see us all the time we
were prowling around, and thought
the camera some kind of a weapon I

was using. Might have let. us ex¬
plain.”

“Perhaps they didn’t feel inclined
to wait till we had taiight them Eng¬
lish,” I said. “Still it is hard lines
to have to go home without knowing
more about them.”

Little we thought then how much
we should come to know of these mys¬
terious folk, how they would learn
English. Little did we guess what a
difference in our fate that brief ex¬
cursion to the white observatory had
made.

Topping the ridge, before we took
the slope down into our own valley,
we halted and glanced back at the
glistening white object. There was
no sign of life or activity about it.
Mark sighed, and we faced round.

CHAPTER 8

ABANDONED TO THE NIGHT

T he valley was now a huge cup of
green and yellow bloom, and we
tramped along easily through serried
ranks of seeding trees. Already the
more advanced bore clusters of nuts.
The dusky insects buzzed around us
harmlessly. Now and then there
would be a loud report, as one of the
broivn nuts burst violently open,
scattering its seeds far and wide
with the violence of small shot.

“I should think this is the most
malicious and vindictive vegetation in
the solar system! ” I growled, after a
peppering that made our faces tingle.

“Anyhow, it’s given up trying to
leg us down. Come on; I have a sort
of uneasy feetling about Norden. ’ ’
“The Star Shell is there yet, all
right, Mark. It seems more like
home, now that we can see it. Only
about another mile, and then good¬
bye. Shan’t be sorry to nose-dive for
Earth.”

A minute after I had spoken there
was the sharp report of a revolver—
another—and another. Without wast¬
ing breath on a word, we tore for-

612

WEIRD TALES

ward at top speed. Owing to the
thick forest growth we could only sec
the snub-nosed top of the Shell, not
what was happening at its base. On
Earth that mile would have taken us
ten minutes; we did it in two.

Being more in training for this
sort of thing than Mark, I was the
first to break through the scrub and
see what was wrong. Letting out a
yell that ought to have been heard on
Jupiter, I put on a terrific sprint,
whipping out my gun as I ran.

The position was serious enough.
Holding Danda Singh down by the
throat with one hand, the professor
was raining blows upon his victim
with the butt end of a revolver.
Danda struggled gamely, but fanatic
frenzy seemed to be giving Norden
superhuman strength. When I yelled
out, the prince collapsed and his
assailant flung him off. Then, with
an angry snarl, the professor leapt
for the steel ladder and climbed up
into the Shell as nimbly as a cat.

I fired twice, missing him each
time, and then I rushed for the lad¬
der myself. By the time I had my
feet on the bottom rung, the profes¬
sor was inside and the double doors
were shut. Mark shouted something,
I felt the ladder swaying under me,
and realized in a flash that the Star
Shell was rising. There was nothing
for it but to let go. I sprang clear
and fell into Mark’s arms, knocking
liim over.

There was a faint hiss, a subdued
shriek in the air, caused by its swift
passage through that shallow atmos¬
phere, and then silence.

When we picked ourselves up, the
Star Shell had vanished!

Mark, rubbing his head, staggered
to his feet, and there we stood, gazing
helplessly at the silent sky.

We were marooned on Europa,
abandoned to an awful fate, left to
perish in the coming glacial night.
And such is the power of imagination

that already there seemed to be a
chilly tang in the air.

“Now' what are we going to do?”
I queried blankly. “Write our epi¬
taphs,” I added grimly, answering
my own question.

“Better see how Danda is, and tell
him of our discovery first, ’ ’ said
Mark. “I’ll tell you my idea later.
The loss of the Star Shell is not all
the mischief. The mathematical and
chemical formulas of my invention—
the result of years of work, and much
too intricate and detailed to trust to
my memory—is hidden in a secret
panel in the inner wall of the Shell.
But look after Danda.”

The prince, though bruised and
shaken, was not really very much the
worse for his experience. It seemed
the professor had pretended to be
most friendly and had put Danda off
his guard completely. He had asked
for a match, and whilst Danda was
searching his pockets, had attacked
him. The prince had fired his re¬
volver to attract our attention, and
then, taken at a disadvantage, had
been overpowered.

“So I am feeling a bit sore and
dazed—but if that were all!” he
said. ‘ ‘ This building, now—could
we not try it again?”

“That is the only thing we can
do,” responded Mali. “It is the one
possible chance of saving our lives. A
poor chance, but our only one. Left
to ourselves, without shelter or food
or warmth, without the means of
procuring any, it can only be a mat¬
ter of hours before we are frozen to
death in a frozen atmosphere. Thank
heaven it will take longer for this
little planet to cool down than it did
to warm up.”

“Why? I don’t see it,” I said im¬
patiently.

“Natural law—in one case you
have a plus heat, an actual bombard¬
ment by heat vibrations; in cooling
down there is merely an absence of
this activity. There are no cold vi-

THE STAR SHELL

613

brations, it is simply a cessation of
atomic life. If Europa possessed no
atmosphere, then this cessation would
be almost instantaneous, but the at¬
mospheric blanket, tenuous though it
is, will quite perceptibly retard the
process. ’ ’

“Well, what then?” I queried
moodily.

“There are living beings on this
world,” he affirmed calmly.

“They didn’t encourage us be¬
fore,” said I. “Anyhow, we can try
them again. Have we time to reach
them before sunset?”

“I think we shall just manage it,
but we shall have to travel,” said
Mark. “We shall be going east, re¬
member; going to meet the sunset,
and none of us is up to concert
pitch. ’ ’

We didn’t talk much as we footed
it back along our tracks toward the
valley of the round white dome. We
had no breath to spare, and there was
nothing useful to say.

Now that we were in a hurry, it
seemed farther, much farther, than
when we had strolled along in the
morning. And we had all had a tir¬
ing time, and precious little real rest
since leaving the Earth. By and by
Mark and Danda began to lag, and I
had to slow down.

“Go on and save yourself, if you
can, never mind us,” they panted,
pegging on gamely.

“Cut that out,” I grunted., “We
stick together. We are nearly at the
top of the hill, and then it is only
about ten minutes downhill going.”

“Yet it already much colder is,”
gasped the prince.

It was certainly easier going, once
we were over the ridge and in the
valley, making a bee-line for the
white object of our forlorn hope; but
I scarcely dared to look at the dark¬
ening sky ahead, and the chill wind
that met us withered the brown leaves
of the dwarf trees. Was that hoar¬
frost that glistened on a piece of

higher ground? Were these snow¬
flakes that fell like solitary feathers
around us?

Could we do it? Could we reach
the strange building and gain admit¬
tance before the awful, cold night
came?

CHAPTER 9

THE WONDERFUL MEN OF
JUPITER

T he icy breath of the approaching
night swept fiercely over the dy¬
ing forest as we staggered into the
clearing. The eastern sky was al¬
most inky black, already glittering
with the many-colored stars; the sun
was touching the western horizon.
Drops of liquid air splashed and froze
into solid white cakes upon the
ground.

With the last energy of despair we
ran to the domed building and banged
with the ring of the bolt.

“If they won’t have us in, it’s
good-bye, friends,” said Mark, his
teeth chattering. Our breaths hung
in the air like clouds of milky steam.

But, as he gasped out the words,
the ring-bolt moved! It turned, kept
turning, and we saw that the circular
section of wall in which it was fixed
was slowly coming out. It was un¬
screwing outward. Slow at first, it
turned faster and faster, showing
the bright spirals of a metallic
thread. When about two feet of this
huge screw-stopper projected from
the side of the building, it swung on
a hinge, disclosing a lamp-lit tunnel
through which it was possible to walk
by stooping. A voice—a very human
sort of voice—called something.

We could not understand the
words, but the meaning was plain
enough, and we needed no pressing
to accept the invitation. Out of the
tail of my eye, as the round door
swung to behind us, I caught a flash¬
ing glimpse of a whirling tempest of
white flakes. We were rescued only
just in time.

WEIRD TALES

r,u

We stumbled clumsily through the
tunnel, through that ten-foot wall of
silvery metal, warmed by the caress
of the heated air that met us, and
stepped down into the main apart¬
ment of that strange building.

We were, I fancied, ready for any¬
thing. We were prepared to find
these inhabitants of Europa of al¬
most any shape and size. I should
not have been in the least astonished
to come face to face with intelligent
beavers, civilized octopuses, or gigan¬
tic ants. What we did meet sur¬
prized us more than anything we had
yet seen on our incredible journey.

There were only two beings in the
room—and they were human—they
were men.

There was no doubt about it.
Standing five feet high, but well-
proportioned, dark-haired, clean¬
shaven, dressed in black suits not so
very unlike our own, if somewhat
looser in fit, pale-skinned and refined
of feature, these were essentially
men.

Somehow, after the first shock of
surprize, we felt quite at home, felt
as though we were welcome guests.

Mark stepped forward and held out
his hand.

“We owe you our thanks, gentle¬
men,” he said. “You don’t know
what I am saying, of course, but I
think you understand. You didn’t
want us in before, but you have saved
our lives this time.”

For answer the taller of the two
men lifted his right hand and
stretched up to lay it on our friend’s
shoulder. He smiled, talking quite
eloquently for a couple of minutes.

It was a queer game, and Dandy
and I couldn’t help grinning. The
other chap saw us, frowned, and
then joined in the grin.

“Here’s where we get stuck, old
boy,” said I. “We are in a pretty
plight, and we could do with a lot of
explanation, and yet we can’t get a
word across.”

That was where I was wrong. As
if he had read my thought, the
smaller man pointed to the long black
tube that stood, clamped to a marked
circle, on a strong metal column in
the middle of the room, touched it,
and gazed earnestly at me.

“ Tel-e-scope! ” he said.

We jumped with astonishment.
He touched the side of the building,
glanced at us all in turn, and said:

‘ ‘ W all—side-wall. ’ ’

“Great Scott!” I cried. “He
can read our thoughts! We had
better give him a few lessons. How’s
this?”

And I rapidly indicated the roof,
the floor, my two companions in turn,
our clothes, and various objects out
of our pockets. In each case the
small man accurately repeated the
appropriate word or words I had in
mind.

There was no doubt about it—he
could do thought-reading. And when
he spoke he seemed to find the Eng¬
lish words pleasant and easy to use.

By this time we were feeling very
drowsy in that warm air, after the
cold we had experienced, and the
prince, by way of a hint, stretched
himself at full length on a rug on
the floor and closed his eyes. I fol¬
lowed suit, and they carefully cov¬
ered the two of us with other rugs.
Mark, I noticed, with lazy curiosity,
as I dozed off, was standing by the
telescope, grimacing and gesticulating
to the taller of the two men—whom
we afterward knew as Delius.

When I woke, Mark was still on his
feet—but he and the two men were
talking rapidly—in English!

“Get up, Dandy,” I said, nudging
the prince, “here’s the biggest won¬
der yet. Listen to them. They can
do it better than you.”

“Yes, yes,” Delius was saying,
“we expect to return to Jupiter—as
you name our home—in a short time,
when our task here is ended. See,

THE STAR SHELL

615

your friends are awaking. You must
tell them what we have done.”

“Yes, by all means tell us how
you managed to teach these chaps,”
said I. “It seems too good to be
true, but fire away. Then it will be
your turn for a nap.”

Poor old Mark looked ready enough
for a rest. His eyes were strained
and blood-shot, his cheeks were hag¬
gard, his hands trembled.

“I didn’t teach them at all, Harry.
They just put me into a trance—hyp¬
notized me. Then each of them hyp¬
notized the other in turn, and whilst
in the mesmeric state we learned each
other’s languages. I can talk quite
well in Jovian—as we may call the
language of Jupiter, where our new
friends really belong—and they seem
to like English. You two will have
to be put through the mill next, and
then we shall all be ready for the trip
to the big planet.”

“Give us breathing time, Mark.
Let’s get the hang of it all. Here
goes—stop me if I’m wrong. The
idea is that these chaps can read
thought somehow. They put you into
the mesmeric state and picked and
packed your brains to such a tune
that you can now talk their lingo and
they can use English. It is not a
pleasant job, but we have to go
through with it. These people really
hail from Jupiter, and expect to go
back there' soon, taking us with them.
Is that right?”

“You have it, Harry.”

“But,” queried the prince, “how
can we this world leave? The Star
Shell has gone. Are these people
clever so much more than men?
What are they doing here?”

“In some ways they are far more
advanced than our humanity,” an¬
swered Mark. “The fire-ray, for in¬
stance. And the metal of which this
building is constructed. It is heat¬
proof, and as you can see for your¬
selves, though it looked opaque from
outside, it is quite transparent from

within. They can make it transpar¬
ent at will. In other respects, they
could learn from us. These two arc
atsronomers, completing a star map,
which can be done so much better
here in the really dark nights of Eu-
ropa. They came, of course, with all
their supplies, in a space-ship similar
to the Sh ell, and another will come to
take them back when their work is
done. As to the Star Shell, ask my
friend, Mr. Delius.”

“Your travel-vessel, Mr.. Wil¬
liams,” said the taller of these won
derful men from Jupiter, “is at pres
ent upon our world—the greatest
planet of the solar system, which is
our home. It is at rest, rather dam¬
aged with its fall, in the aerial land¬
ing place in the city Nadir. The
man who was in it is injured, but will
recover.”

That bowled me out, center-stump
and seivt the balls flying all over the
field.

“Put us under the influence and
get it over,” I said, resignedly. “You
can’t surprize me any more. Lead
on, Dandy MacDuff, and look pleas¬
ant.”

CHAPTER 10
A DESPERATE PLIGHT
f course I can not say whether
we appeared pleasant or other¬
wise during our mesmeric dose of in
tensive training. Mark says, unfee]
ingly, that we were a pair of sleepy
idiots, but anyhow we came througl
all right, though we felt very seedy
afterward. When we woke to th
dawn of another day of forty-thre
hours, we found that we could tal'
freely to Delius the astronomer am
Oberon, his assistant. From now o'
I shall give our conversation a
though we all used English, wherea
we often employed Jovian whe’
speaking to the Jovians.

We learned that there was a sma.'
wireless installation in the dome, an< :
by that they had got news of the land-

616

WEIKD TALES

ing of the Star Shell on Jupiter.
Professor Norden had started blind¬
ly, blunderingly, had traveled too
quickly, and only the density of Ju¬
piter’s cloudy atmosphere had saved
his life. So great was the heat
caused by the Star Shell’s plunging
through that atmosphere that he had
been nearly roasted. He was so far
gone, in fact, that had not the shock
of landing cracked the Shell and
burst open the doors, he would have
been unable to release himself.

“But our people dragged him out,
and wretched as his condition was,
read his thoughts,’’ said Oberon.
“We had already wirelessed them of
your terrifying appearance here, and
they at once sent us word of your
companion’s arrival, and how he had
treacherously abandoned you to die
in the night. His journey, remember,
was a short one. When you came and
asked for admission the second time
we knew your danger. How came
you to have so evil a comrade with
you on' this most daring journey?
His act was not worthy of a man; it
was the deed of a barbarian. ’ ’

“Do you know from whence we
come?’’ asked the prince.

“Certainly; we discovered that
when you were in the trance,” was
Oberon’s reply. “You have come
from planet number three of the
solar system. You call it Earth; we
have named it Solitaire, because it
has only one moon. Yours is a great
achievement, you have shown greater
daring than we could imagine possi¬
ble—we who regard a journey from
Jupiter to this world and back as
wonderful—what we can not under¬
stand is how such a man as your com¬
panion could live amongst such a
clever race.”

“You don’t know us yet, friends,”
aid Mark dryly. “There are all
sorts amongst us—good, bad, and
•cry bad. Don’t you find it so
here?”

“It is wonderful,” exclaimed De¬

lius. “Until yesterday we did not
believe that your planet could be in¬
habited at all—we thought it too
small, too near the sun—and now we
find that its people are a mixture of
good and evil in the same race. It
is wonderful!”

“Are you all good, then, on Jupi¬
ter?”

“Unfortunately, no, Solitarian.
But there are with us only two races
of men—ours, the civilized, and the
other, the barbarian. In the long-
past ages, when humanity on Jupiter
evolved from the apelike creatures of
the forests, it divided into these two
distinct races. Our race has keen
brains, pale faces, small physique.
With us cleverness and goodness
went together. As we progressed, we
grew more refined, less selfish, until
such a treacherous and evil act as
that of your companion would be im¬
possible to us. We are civilized.
But the others, the Barbarians, a peo¬
ple of smaller heads and larger bodies
and darker skins, have not advanced
with us. Some of them have glimmer¬
ings of decency and honor, but most
of them are savage and selfish, cruel
and deceitful, envious and revenge¬
ful. They are not our equals in sci¬
ence, but they are cunning and un¬
scrupulous, they- multiply rapidly,
and they dispute the planet with us.
Even now a great war is in progress,
and we fear they gain ground.”

“But you are cleverer than they
are; you have a wonderful weapon in
that fire-ray you drove us off with on
our first visit,” I said. “Why don’t
you conquer them once and for all?”

“We drove you off that first morn¬
ing because we thought you were hos¬
tile,” replied Delius. “We did not
wish to do you any harm beyond de¬
stroying what we then imagined a
weapon. And that is our attitude
toward the Barbarians. We never
attack them, never kill them, except
in self-defense. There is sometimes
great slaughter in our battles, but

THE STAR SHELL

617

when they retire, defeated and weary,
from our forts and cities, we never
pursue them. We release all our
prisoners after treating them well.
And so it may be long before civiliza¬
tion covers the whole of Jupiter—be¬
fore our sane and orderly life sup¬
plants the reign of savagedom.”

“But why don’t you conquer them,
if you can?” I persisted.

“No doubt we could,” was the re¬
ply, “if we cared to wage open war
upon them and treat them as they
treat us. But we think we know a
better way. We do not believe in
taking life if we can avoid it. We
defend ourselves; no more. Some
day, we hope, the Barbarians will
learn from us, will outgrow their evil
nature, and all will be well. But if
not, if they should conquer and we
should be annihilated, at least the
crime will not be ours. Our hands
will be clean of needless bloodshed.
Our souls will pass over into the fu¬
ture life unstained. To live gently
and humanely, gaining wisdom, doing
all the good we can and as little harm
as possible—that, to us, is the essen¬
tial nature of a civilized man. ’ ’

“We have some people on Earth
like you,” said Mark. “We call
them saints, fanatics, Quakers, and
sometimes worse names. We often
admire them, but we find it hard to
carry out such ideas. I should like
to see more of your people—and I
must confess I would like to have a
look at the Barbarians as well!”

“You will soon have the opportu¬
nity, Mr. Dexter. The ship comes to
take us home today or tomorrow. We
are feeling rather uneasy about the
present attack of the enemy, as we
have had no wireless message since
the one that told us of the arrival of
your Star SheU. That particular
sending station may have been taken
by the Barbarians. If so, they must
be nearing the landing station we
use.”

“And in case you—we—all of us

—might into the hands of the Bar¬
barians fall? Would it dangerous
be?” asked Prince Danda.

“It would probably mean a hid¬
eous death,” replied Oberon. “Lei
us hope fortune favors us, for we
can not stay here much longer, as our
supplies are running out.”

We were glancing upward at the
thin, pale crescent of Jupiter, and
suddenly, out of the dark sky, a
shining object came into view. It was
falling rapidly toward us, but its
speed was visibly abating, and as it
settled gently in the clearing we saw
that it was a metal shell, smaller than
ours, but similar in shape. Oberon
pulled a lever and the door of our
building rapidly unscrewed itself out¬
ward and swung open. The astrono¬
mers hurried out, we three after
them, to meet a man who emerged
from the space-ship—another denizen
of Jupiter.

Though the newcomer was evident¬
ly very curious about us, he was in
great haste, and had no time to spare.

“We must start at once if we are
to reach our landing place before the
enemy arrive there, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Have
you the star map?”

Delius showed a roll of parchment
he had snatched up on leaving the
white building. He and Oberon then
closed the door by turning the ring¬
bolt, and we entered the Jovian shell.
We found ourselves in a small room
whose metal walls were as transpar¬
ent as the clearest glass.

The pilot slammed the double doors
behind us—they had double doors,
too!—and started the shell.. It
rose with a jerk that made us feel
sick, turned a somersault., and then
dropped down toward Jupiter far
more swiftly than was comfortable.
The inner room was very small, we
were closely crowded, and breathing
soon became so difficult that it was
not easy to talk. We gathered that
these shells, used only tq, and from
Europa, carried only enough air for

618

WEIRD TALES

three mm for the four hours jour¬
ney at full speed. Now there were
six of us. We were going at the ex¬
treme velocity at the pilot’s com¬
mand.

Jupiter grew larger, and between
the rolling bands of its voluminous
clouds we caught dim glimpses of con¬
tinents and seas. Nearer and nearer
we drew, passing now through the
dense cloud layers, and sinking
safely to ground at last.

But the men of Jupiter were pale
with fear. We had fallen amid the
ruins of a great budding. It was
still smoking from the fire which had

destroyed it The vast level plain
around, lit here and there by blazing
villages, was dotted with the en¬
campments of a great army. Their
waving weapons glittered in the dim
light of the two moons then over¬
head.

“We are too late; we have fallen
amongst the enemy,” said the pilot.
“They will capture us when we go
out.”

“But need we leave the vessel
yet?” asked Mark.

“If we do not leave it we shall
either die of suffocation, or perish
with the ship,” was the Answer.

The thrilling adventures of the Jovians and their companions with
the Barbarians and the Gigasaurs, and the flight through the
Forest of the Great Red Weed , will he described in WEIRD
TALES next month.

NOVEMBER

By A, LESLIE

A warrior priest in tattered cloak
Strides o’er October’s hills;

He casts a gelid fettering yoke
Athwart the hastening rills.

Upon the woodland’s festive dress
His disapproving frown
Falls, and, as contrite, they confess,

A somber robe of brown—

A symbol of repentance—he

With cold hands sternly spreads
O’er rainbowed vine and glowing tree;
Then gravely onward treads.

[NOTES FROM THE DIARY OF
DR. BURN STRUM]

1. THE EXTERNAL HAND

UNE, 6,19-95.—This morning I
encountered the strangest case
of my twenty years of practise.
'John Pendleton, a young real estate
agent of Cassia City, requested a
physical examination, particularly of
a growth on his left side. After he
had stripped I saw that he had a ban¬
dage taped to his side.

Upon removal of the bandage the
growth proved to be a completely
formed right hand, its base (or wrist)
fastened at the curve of the eleventh
rib, directly beneath the armpit. The
hand was slightly open, the palm
turned outward and upward. In size
it was that of a babe’s several months
old.

‘•How long have you had this?” I
asked Pendleton.

“Always, as far back as I can re¬
member,” he answered. “I was born
with it, so I was told. But it wasn’t
always the same size.”

I looked up in surprize. “Not the
same size? What do you mean?”

He hesitated and flushed. “Well,

it—it was-” He made a quick

gesture and added energetically,
“Doctor, don’t think me a fool, or an
imaginative idiot. I am a college
man and not given to silly imagin¬
ings. It’s the truth I am telling you,
remember! That hand used to be
small, very 1 small. But in the last
three months this hand has teen
growing steadily. And you see its
present size! ’ ’

A parasitic hand it was, clearly so.
I knew the thing, for I had seen such
structures before. But a growing
619

(320

WEIRD TALES

hand! And growing after the host
had reached maturity! That seemed
impossible.

By accident I placed an index* fin¬
ger against the palm of the hand.
Immediately its fingers closed upon
my forefinger and gripped, it firmly.
Here was surprize! Usually these
parasitic growths are inactive, with¬
out nerves and provided with a very
scant blood supply. But the grip of
this parasitic, hand was firm and
strong, like that of a babe. It took
considerable effort to release my
finger, so tenacious was the grip.

And after I had freed myself, it
continued to close and open, much
like a small babe’s, and finally made
an infant fist.

Pendleton nodded as he observed
the experiment. “That’s what it
does to me,” he said. “But only
since the last six weeks. It never did
that before then. Now it’s a nui¬
sance. It clutches at everything I put
on,—at my underwear, my shirt, my
pajamas. The only way I can keep
it from pulling and tearing at my
clothes is to bandage it and tape it
fast to my body. Even then I feel it
wriggle and clutch at things. It’s
bothered me a lot. What does this
thing mean, doctor?”

“Well-” I hesitated.

“Go ahead, doctor,” Pendleton
urged. “I’ve been told that it’s a
sort of parasite. But I don’t under¬
stand exactly. How the deuce can
an extra hand be a parasite? Why
should a hand grow from my side?
Remember, I was bom with it!”

“You probably were a twin,” I ex¬
plained, “at least in the early stages
of your embryonic life. In fact, you
and the twin probably came from a
single egg. Identical twins, you know,
come from a single fertilized egg.
Sometimes such twins are equally
developed; more often one twin is bet¬
ter developed than the other. What
it means is that the twins compete

with each other during embryonic
and fetal life, and one may develop at
the expense of the other. As a mat¬
ter of fact, one twin may absorb the
other, sometimes completely so, some¬
times leaving a few traces such as a
hand or foot. Apparently you ab¬
sorbed your twin nearly completely.
This hand is all that is left of him.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” Pendleton
ejaculated in wonderment. “But I
clearly see how that is possible and
that your explanation fits. But look
here, doctor! Then in a way I must
be two personalities merged in one
body—myself and the other twin.”
He paused and his eyes grew wide
with some astonishing thought. “Doc¬
tor! Do you—do you suppose that
the personality, the soul, of the other
twin is still intact and is now trying
to establish itself in this growing
hand?”

“Of course not,” I said firmly.

But while I photographed him and
bandaged the hand the idea suggested
by his question kept revolving in my
mind. I may as well put down my
ideas of the matter:

If the interpretation of twins is
correct, then Pendleton is the auto¬
site and the hand is all that is left
of the parasite. But what became of
the personality, the soul of the para¬
site, when its body was merged into
that of the stronger twin, the auto-
site? If we allow it entity, then the
fact that the parasitic hand, after
being dormant for twenty-three years,
is now growing, would seem to indi¬
cate that the parasite was dominated
by Pendleton until he had attained
his full development, and that now
the dormant personality of the other
twin is asserting itself and trying to
establish its own proper self. A
strange theory! Yet it seems to fit!
How else account for the growth?

UNE 7,1925 .—I have the general
photographs and the X-rays be¬
fore me. The X-rays show that the

THE PARASITIC HAND

621

hand is completely formed, all car-
pals, metacarpals and phalanges be¬
ing clear and of proper shape. A
• rudiment of radius and ulna are pres¬
ent, but fade away near the point of
attachment of the hand. The mus¬
cles and fasehe of the hand are at¬
tached to the intercostal muscles be¬
low the eleventh rib. Blood supply
from an intercostal artery. A doubt¬
ful spot may be a ganglion for the
nerve supply.

June 15,1925. —Pendleton in again
today, after a week’s absence from
town. At my question, “How is the
hand getting on ? ” he answered
shortly, “See for yourself, doctor.”

He stripped, and I proceeded to re¬
move the tape and bandages.

I started back when I saw the hand.
“Why, it has grown!” I exclaimed.
‘ ‘ It seems twice as large as last week.
Like that of a child of five or six
years!”

Pendleton nodded grimly. “That’s
why I told you to see for yourself,
doctor! I wanted you to> be sure
about that fact. What are you going
to do with it ? ”

“Remove it,” I said firmly. “This
week! It should not be a very seri¬
ous matter.”

A queer look came into Pendle¬
ton’s eyes. “You don’t suppose that
in removing this—er—this—what is
left of my twin, we would be—er—
doing murder?”

I smiled at the faney. “No, hard¬
ly. You may .liken this hand to a
tumor. Removal of a tumor does not
constitute murder, does it ? A tumor
is a parasitic growth. This hand is
a parasitic growth. We remove para¬
sitic growths before they become too
dangerous. Murder ? ’ ’

“Well, no,” he said. “But I had
a crazy dream about it the other
night,” he added apologetically. “I
dreamed I saw my twin and that he
said, ‘You have had your share of
life at my expense. Now I want my

own. Don’t you dare tamper with
things. I’m going.to have my way.’
And then I woke up.”

“Rather obvious,” I commented.
“A natural sequence of our conversa¬
tion of twin entities, or rather, of
one twin overcoming the other. Noth¬
ing-to it, my boy.” I patted him on
the shoulder. “What do you say
about three days from now? That
will give you time to prepare. Not a
serious operation, you understand.
But it is good to be prepared. ’ ’

He assented, and after taking a few
more photographs I dismissed him.

July 21, 1925 .—San Francisco,
Calif, A telegram just received from
Pendleton: “Come back to operate.
Urgent.” The illness and death of
my father had called me to Califor¬
nia before I could operate on Pendle¬
ton. And the disposition of the estate
required a longer absence than con¬
templated.

I wired back, “On way in two
days. Expect me by twenty-fifth. ”

July 26, 1925 .—Back in Cassia
City. Pendleton met me at the sta¬
tion this afternoon. He looked pale
and thin and haunted. Despite the
heat he was shivering. “Thank God
you have come, doctor!” he cried. “I
am going insane.”

I looked at him curiously. “You
don’t mean that the hand-’ ’

“It’s—it’s growing, doctor!” His
eyes held a wild and frightened look.
“It is larger—and a part of the fore¬
arm has grown out!”

I stared at him in unbelief. “Hard¬
ly possible,” I said.

“But it is, doctor,” he insisted.
“Doctor, you haven’t- known me for
a fool. This thing has given me no
rest for a month. It is always twist¬
ing and pulling, as if it were trying
to reach into me for something. It’s
driving me mad!” Cold terror was
in his voice.

The taxi stopped at my office and
we hurried in. Pendleton stripped

622

WEIRD TALES

quickly and jerked off the bandages.
•‘There!”

He was right. The hand had
grown and now was the size of that
of a vigorous boy of fourteen or fif¬
teen. But, in addition, the lower half
of a forearm had grown out!

JULY 27, 1925. — Removed the
*j> parasitic hand from Pendleton’s
side this morning. Would not repeat
the operation for a million dollars. It
was a terrifying experience.

General and local anesthetics used.
But while P. responded excellently,
the parasitic hand remained active;
in fact, it seemed to be animated with
a fighting spirit. It seized the wrist
of one of the surgical nurses during
the preliminaries and held it in a re¬
lentless grip, so that she fainted in
horror.

Later, when I proceeded to make
the first incision, it seized my wrist
and with remarkable force tried to
direct the scalpel toward Pendleton’s
heart. Only by dropping the scalpel
did I avoid stabbing P. to death.

I then applied anesthetics to the
hand itself, with no appreciable re¬
sults. Finally, in desperation, I
pushed a wad of cotton into the hand,
threw a loop around its wrist and had
one of the nurses hold it taut. By
thus misleading and misdirecting its
efforts I was able to proceed. (How
silly these words sound, as if I had
been dealing with a separate entity!
And yet that seems to be the only
plausible assumption that would help
to explain).

Throughout the operation the hand
kept up its writhing and clutching
motions. As I made the final cut it
jerked loose from my hand, fell to the
floor and then fastened around the
ankle of the chief surgical nurse. In
horror she dropped the instruments,
screaming hysterically, and ran out
of the operating room and fainted in
the hallway.

I darted after her and removed the
fiendish hand. Even then it kept up
its autonomous struggle. It was with
a feeling of relief that I dropped it
into a jar filled with preservative and
returned to complete my work on
Pendleton.

I was careful to remove all traces
of the attaching structures, and also
treated the vestiges with X-rays to
destroy all rudiments of the growth.

The operation, though simple, and
normally requiring perhaps half an
hour, lasted nearly four hours, be¬
cause of the constant interference of
the parasitic hand. Brent, the intern
in charge of the anesthesia, the three
nurses and I were complete wrecks
at the end of the ordeal. After we
wheeled the operating table from the
room and turned the patient over to
the special nurse, we found that the
nurses had fallen to the floor, either
in a faint or exhausted.

Brent looked over the room. ‘‘Rath¬
er like a shambles today,” he re¬
marked in ghoulish humor.

I nodded and dropped into a chair,
and knew no more. I believe I faint¬
ed also.

August 10, 1925 .—Pendleton dis¬
missed from the hospital today.
Only a circular scar indicates the
position of the parasitic hand.

2. THE INTERNAL HAND

M ARCH 5, 1926. — Pendleton
dropped in this morning. He
looked worried and thoughtful.

“You’re not sleeping well, my
boy,” I told him.

“You wouldn’t sleep well, either,
doctor, if you felt something clawing
within you.”

I manifested surprize. “What do
you mean?”

He smiled wearily. ‘ ‘ Exactly what
I said. Something clawing and pull¬
ing within me. And right at the
place where that hand was removed.”

THE PARASITIC HAND

623

“Hm!” I muttered. “That sounds
rather curious. ’ ’

“Call it crazy, but I know what it
is like! It is as if a hand were grip¬
ping lightly, shoving things aside,
pulling at me, as if somebody—doc¬
tor, that hand is coming back!”

I looked sharply at him. No, he
did not look silly. Of course, like
other physicians, I knew that the
imagination can produce astonishing
delusions. But Pendleton did not
seem to me to be of that sort.

“Strip and get up on the examin¬
ing table,” I ordered tersely.

With a sigh he obeyed. I could
find little. The circular scar showed
signs of disappearing. Below it the
abdomen seemed faintly distended,
but not enough to be symptomatic.
The stethoscope revealed only the
normal sounds, and palpation was
similarly uninforming.

“Let’s see what an X-ray will
show, ’ ’ I suggested.

March 6, 1926. —Just examined
the X-ray prints. Nothing impor¬
tant indicated, no signs of congestion
as in a tumorous growth.

I went hack through the files for
the X-rays taken last June. Com¬
parison showed that some of the in¬
ternal organs had been displaced. The
stomach, for one, was pushed to the
right a distance of nearly two inches.

This discovery surprized me, and
in my astonishment I dropped the
print. I bent down to pick it up,
and jerked back in amazement. For
from a distance I saw what had
escaped me in a closer view: a hand
was outlined within the body, to the
left of the stomach.

I picked up the print and exam¬
ined it carefully. No, it was not a
positive structure. It was merely
that certain structures had been
pushed aside and that the vacated
portion had the outline of a hand.
No evidence of actual entity, only the
handlike outline.

A puzzling case! Is Pendleton
right in saying that the hand had
returned? But it isn’t an actual
structure. A phantom, then?

March 15, 1926. —Pendleton com¬
plains of internal pains and diffi¬
culty in breathing. I have pre¬
scribed sedatives.

March 20, 1926. —Pendleton or¬
dered to the hospital last night. An¬
other X-ray taken, with orders to
rush. Just examined the plate. The
hand-shaped space has increased in
size and has pushed upward. The
technician called my attention to it.
So she has noticed it, too! But there
is no sign of a tumor. Just an, ab¬
sence of structures, an outline of a
hand. What to do ?

March 22, 1926. —Pendleton suf¬
fering and in agony. “It’s reaching
for my heart!” he groaned. “Can’t
you do something, doctor?”

I gave him a strong sedative. After
that I discussed with Brent the
chances of an operation. But operate
for what?

After that I went to the surgery
and told the nurses of the possibility
of operating on P. in a day or two.
Miss Cummings, the chief surgical
nurse, and her two assistants paled
at the announcement, and then did
something rather unethical. They re¬
fused.

“No,” said Miss C., with a shiver.
“No, doctor! I can’t work with you
on that case. I should' faint with ter¬
ror.”

Her two assistants expressed them¬
selves similarly.

“Please, doctor! Don’t ask me,”
said Miss Cummings. “I’ll—I’ll
never forget how—how that—that
thing seized my ankle.” She col¬
lapsed at the recollection and began
to cry softly.

“Do you wish Pendleton to die
without a chance?” I asked gravely.
“I must do something, I am afraid,
but I do not know what to do. I do

WEIRD TALES

G24

not know what is troubling him. He
is suffering, that is evident. The
X-rays tell too little. As it is, I must
proceed on a pure guess. I do not
know what I’ll find. But it is Pen¬
dleton’s only chance. That is, if you
will do your duty.”

“Duty!” The appeal to duty was
effective. Miss Cummings smiled
faintly and said in a low voice,
‘ ‘ Yery well, doctor! I ’ll try! ’ ’

Her assistants nodded in fearful
assent.

March 23, 1926 .—The climax came
this morning. I was making the
rounds of the patients and stopped in
Pendleton’s room. He had slept
quietly last night, he said. “Still, I
feel queer, doctor! As if things had
come to a decision. Sort of ready for
the final battle. It’s going for my
heart, I know, trying to take my life
for its own. Can’t you do something,
doctor?”

I reassured him and remarked that
we would probably operate on him
tomorrow.

“Thank God!” lie muttered. “I
don’t think I can stand this much
longer. Do you think you can rid me
of this—whatever it is?”

“I hope so,” I answered. “In
fact,” I added, quite contrary to my
actual belief, ‘‘I feel sure that I can.
I’ve been studying up this matter
and know something definite now.”

My fabulation gave him confidence
and he seemed more cheerful. So I
left him and went down the corridor
to see other patients.

Scarcely ten minutes later I heard
a fearful scream, a choking ery of
“Help!”

I rushed into the hallway and saw
the nurses making for Pendleton’s
room. But they stopped at his door
and shrank back.

I ran up and pushed them aside.

Pendleton was in a turmoil, his bed
a cyclone of whirling sheets and blan¬
kets. He was twisting, tumbling, and

bounding up and down, his groans
fearful to hear.

Just a few seconds! Then the
sheets were whipped aside and I saw
Pendleton. His face was red, eyes
blood-shot and staring glassily, the
mouth wide open, chin pendent, and
tongue protruding.

“He’s—he’s—got me!” he gasped;
his body rocked uncertainly on
his lips in a rotary motion;
a final “A-a-ah-h-h!” Then he
snapped erect, and fell over on his
side.

Pendleton was dead. I tried re¬
storatives, but it was no use. The
coroner, Dr. Bidwinkle, performed
the autopsy, in which I helped him.
We found the abdominal organs
pushed aside as indicated in the
X-rays. Just above this the dia¬
phragm was ruptured, the lung
shoved aside, the pericardium ripped
open. The heart was contracted and
furrowed, as if a fully grown hand
had squeezed it until it stopped heat¬
ing.

Dr. Bidwinkle was astounded. “Of
all the crazy things! ” he muttered.

So I told him of the case and also
showed him the photographs. ‘ ‘ Hell! ’ ’
he exclaimed, after I had concluded.
“You and I, Burnstrum, don’t know
it all! I think you’re right, but we
can’t afford to expose ourselves to
possible ridieule. Your X-rayB and
witnesses wouldn’t convince one out
of ten physicians. There are some
people that you simply can’t con¬
vince! So why bother? Here’s
what I propose to put down on the
certificate: ‘Death from hemorrhage
induced by internal rupture.’ Do
you agree?”

“Yes, it will be better that way,”
I said. “But kindly note this!” I
added, turning to Pendleton’s body.
I reached over and placed the fingers
of my hand—the right hand—into
the impressions or furrows of Pendle¬
ton’s heart. The fingers and thumb
fitted the grooves.

I T WAS on the 12:30 train from
Athol to Boston that I met the
man with the beady eyes. I men¬
tion the eyes particularly, for they
were the distinctive features ;it is very
odd that they are all that I can re¬
member of his appearance. Vaguely
I recall that he wore a gray suit,
rather light for our changeable No¬
vember weather, but even that is un¬
certain.

It was a cut-rate day, with a slash
in prices for an excursion, and the
coach was well filled. He got on at
Gardner, with a small crowd that
hustled him down the aisle and
washed him beside me, so bewildered
that without bothering to ask me if
the other half of my seat was taken,
he plumped himself down with a re¬
lieved sigh.

‘ ‘ Bather cool, ’ ’ I thought, and with¬
out knowing it I must have spoken
aloud, for he nodded brightly with a
quick little snap of his head, saying,
“Yes, isn’t itf”
w. t.— 2

Amused at the natural mistake, I
determined, since he was so friendly,
to strike up an acquaintance to while
away the tedium of a three-hours ride
and incidentally perhaps to learn
something that might be of value to
me in a novel I am writing. Every
man has in him one good story if it
can only be dug out, but some are
buried pretty deep.

I forget our first words, but we ex¬
hausted the subject of the weather
rather thoroughly and were pleasant¬
ly drifting into a discussion of our
fellow passengers, when I noticed a
movement on his sleeve.

It was one of the common barn-
spiders that are so often seen festoon¬
ing rafters with velvety soft hangings
of dove-gray. Probably chilled by
Hie eold wind outside, the warmth of
the car had brought it out of its con¬
cealment to reconnoiter.

A spider gives me the creeps, now
more than ever that I know why, but
then as always I felt a surge of revul-
625

626

WEIRD TALES

sion, struck it off his am and crushed
it with my foot.

He was smiling oddly when I
looked up. “Do you know why you
did that?” he said.

“Because I hate the things!” I
answered. - “Always did.”

“I think the word you mean is
‘dislike’/’ he replied, “but I can
truly say that I hate them, for I know
more about them in one sense than
any other living man on earth today.
Shall I tell you why?”

“Do!” I said, smiled a secret smile
within me, and prepared to take men¬
tal notes, for I scented a story at last.

I. INTO UNKNOWN COUNTRY■

“ly/pr name is Jabez Pentreat,” he
-*■ began; “my mother was Eng¬
lish and my father a Welsh miner.
They moved to this country in 1887,
two years before I was bom, as work
was scarce and living but a bare ex¬
istence in the old country. Here
they found it but little better, al¬
though with more ambition they
might have become moderately well-
to-do. When I was young, things
were in a bad way for us, father
worked spasmodically, while mother
took in washings to tide us over hard
times. We never had much money.

“I went to grade school until I was
fourteen, and was then obliged to
leave in order that I might bring in
a few dollars by my bodily labor.
Brains counted for nothing in the
manufacturing town where I lived.
It was one of father’s favorite say¬
ings that ‘Book-larnin’ never did no¬
body no good! ’ So you see I was up
against it. Three years later I ran
away from home.

“I found work in Boston in con¬
nection with a fruit-importing com¬
pany, and learned something of the
world, as represented by the harbor-
ports of South America.

“In one of those little coast towns
I met a man who was to change my

life. You have heard of Sir Adling-
ton Carewe?”

“The man who astounded the
scientific world with his masterly
monograph on Possibilities of the In¬
sect World f” I asked.

“That was he,” answered the man
with the beady eyes. “To him I am
indebted for all my knowledge. At
his own expense, I finished school and
entered college. At his desire, I con¬
centrated upon botany, entomology
and other kindred studies, for he
hoped that I should take his place in
the line of discoverers when he was
gone.

“Well, I can say with pride that
his pains' were not wasted upon me,
although he is not where he can ap¬
preciate the changes that time has
wrought upon that crude roustabout
that I was then.

“I understand that he is on the
west coast of Africa at present, ex¬
perimenting with the higher forms of
apes.

“South America always fascinated
me with its magnificent opportunities
for studying insect life. It is a forc¬
ing-house for vegetation, and in its
dank, steaming jungles, for thousands
of square miles untouched by white
feet, who knows what marvelous
things may exist, all unknown to the
outer world? I have found a few,
but I have only skimmed the edges
and never expect to learn much more,
although I leave again in the spring.

“Have you ever paused to think
of the swarming life that goes on day
after day, beneath your feet, busy
with its own affairs, as you with
yours ? Another world goes about its
business of loves and hates, of living
and dying, of little engineering works
as important to them as a Brooklyn
Bridge or a Panama Canal to us, al¬
though one step of your foot can de¬
stroy the work of days.

“There are grass-eaters and there
are carnivores that prey upon them,

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

627

and others that in turn feed upon the
slayers. There are cities in minia¬
ture, slaves and masters, workers,
idlers, miners and aviators, and all
this teeming life may be in your own
back yard, unnoticed except when
your wife complains because the ants
persist in finding the sugar-bowl, and
the flies ‘just will get in somehow.*

“And remember, this life is alien
to us. Although it is so similar to
us in some ways, it is a world in it¬
self, far from humans. One writer,
I have read, remarks in a joking way
that it may even be alien to this
planet.

“Hero is a thought that I would
like to have you ponder. While all
other insects have their appointed
prey, each feeding upon one certain
enemy, herbivore or plant and rarely
touching other types of food (thus
by the wise provisions of nature keep¬
ing down the swarming life that
otherwise would overwhelm human¬
ity), the spider feeds indiscriminate¬
ly upon all!

“The spider! Dread ogre of the
insect world! How he is feared!
Not only by his prey, but also by man,
against whom, by reason of his size,
and that alone, he has but little
power.

“And South America is the insect
paradise. Nowhere else will you find
such impenetrable morasses, such
dank and steamy jungles, such unbe¬
lievable monstrosities, in both vegeta¬
ble and animal kingdoms.

“But I digress. To my tale, then,
and think your own thoughts. I ask
for no comment or interruption.

“In search of a sable butterfly,
with a coffin outlined in white upon
each wing, of which only one collector
has ever secured a specimen, I came
at last to Ciudad Bolivar, which lies
in Venezuela.

“In this town I obtained eight na¬
tive Indians, who were invaluable at
times and nuisances at others. We

searched in that mysterious mountain
land of Guayana, entering where the
Caroni River empties into the Orin¬
oco. The Caroni’s waters are combed
by cataracts and rapids, but are well-
known for fifty miles,—here the dense
woods begin and man’s knowledge
ends, for excepting myself, I believe
no white man has ever explored those
forests.

“It is one of the mystery lands of
Venezuela, the never-never lands
where almost, anything can happen
and usually does. Usually a white in
that section is rather a being to be
taken care of, as white men are more
valuable in a gift-producing way
alive than dead; but there are tribes
of nomadic Indians, head-hunters by
choice, that roam the dismal forests,
and to them the head of a white man,
shrunk to the size of an orange, is
their Kohinoor or Great Mogul! Not
far away live the Maquitares, a tribe
of blonds, almost white, and at a
greater distance, the Guaharibos,
whose savagery has never allowed the
head-waters of the Orinoco to be dis¬
covered.

“My Indians sometimes heard
their drums growling to one another
far away in the steamy tropic nights,
but they came always from the north
and south, never from the west to¬
ward which we were pressing. On
the sixth day from the river, we
heard them behind us, but still far
away; and as we cooked our meals in
the tambo, a rude shelter from the
night dews, such as the rubber hunt¬
ers farther south construct, some¬
times we wondered why they were
upon all sides but never before.

“On the ninth day we heard noth¬
ing but the ceaseless drip-drip-drip
into the swampy ground and occa¬
sionally the roar of some dead forest
giant crashing to earth, chocked to
death by parasitic vines that hid the
tree from sight. That night the hun¬
ters came back empty-handed. We

WEIRD TALES

had not seen any animal all day, not
even the usual troop of monkeys that
howled down curses at us, swinging
along under the forest roof, dropping
fruit skins and nuts upon us and
warning all life for miles that stran¬
gers were at hand.

“We made hungry camp, for we
traveled light and my men were dis¬
posed to grumble because we were in
unknown country and no one knew
what lay before us.

“The black butterfly was given up
now, but I determined to press on
three days more, and then to give it
up as a bad job and go back, for I
already had enough specimens to re¬
pay me for my trip.

“Before I curled up in my ham¬
mock, I shook it to dislodge any in¬
sects that might be in its folds, and
out dropped a large spider, the size
of my hand. I smashed it with my
boot and at the same time saw another.
As I struck that one, screams arose
from my Indians and they dashed for
the fire. One was literally covered
with the vermin and dropped before
he reached the light. In a moment
we loaded the blaze with brush and
had a bonfire that roared six-foot
flames.

2. PRISONERS OF INSECTS

“■\7'bu can not imagine the scene

* that met our sight! The things
covered the ground and trees all
about us. A carpet of gray was mov¬
ing and rustling continually back
from the light, and as the flames shot
higher we could see that the twigs
and branches hung low with their
weight. Now and then one would
drop with a plop on the ground as
the light struck and scuttle over the
backs of others till it found a place
to rest. My hammock was now filled
with the crawling things as a saucer
is heaped with berries, sickening gray
creatures with jet-black eyes that

glistened hungrily, and all intently
watching us.

“We could hear a kind of low
clicking and chittering as they
opened and closed their mandibles. It
seemed as though they were talking
to one another while they waited for
us, in a curiously knowing way, and
those pinpoint eyes watched and
gloated most obscenely expectant.

“The body of the dead man was
just outside the circle of light, and
all night a swarming heap of spiders
surged over and around it, while my
Indians fed the fire for their lives,
and race and casta were forgotten as
we huddled, massed about the fire,
sweat raining from us in the terrible
heat.

“Morning came at last, and as the
sky began to brighten, the gray hor¬
rors grew thinner until only a few
stragglers still roamed near the clean-
picked skeleton; and when the sun
rose they too crept' to hiding places,
leaving only the white bones to tell
the story of that frightful night.

“When all were gone, my Indians
begged me to turn back. I refused,
although my own inclinations pointed
in that direction. I kept bold face
and pointed out that by going west
we would avoid the savages and leave
this dreaded spot behind us. My
head man looked grim, but said
nothing. So on again! On into the
jungle, fighting our way through
thick tangled undergrowth, followed
by dense clouds of mosquitoes and
gnats, the only life we saw that day,
besides ourselves.

“About noon, although we could
not see the sun through the riot of
vegetation, we found a small stream
of clear water which abounded in
small fish.

“We dined royally on fish and
fruit, in the midst of a deathlike
stillness. Not a leaf rustled, no birds
sang, not a monkey or any other ani¬
mal did we see that day, and in the

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

629

same breathless hush we made our
tenth and last tambo that evening,
having covered perhaps fifteen miles
during the day.

“Keeping in mind the former
night, we selected a clear open space
for the erecting of our shelters,
brought in an immense quantity of
wood and sat around the fire in that
charmingly complete and unqualified
democracy of man when a common
danger threatens.

“Before long, just as the drums
snarled faintly to the east, a little
black and red creature scuttled out
of the wood, bustled down to the wa¬
ter’s edge and drank daintily. I rec¬
ognized one of the most venomous
of the arachnids, usually the size of
a silver dollar, but this specimen was
easily five inches across his scarlet-
barred body. I determined to have
it, and cautiously loosened my but¬
terfly net from my pack. This breed
is very timid, although its bite is so
deadly, and I crept up on it with
the utmost care.

“About five feet away, it saw me,
and instead of darting away, it
jumped in my direction. Out of pure
fright, I crushed it flat, and the
scenes of the night before were re¬
peated almost identically, but now
there were many of the new species
mingled with the gray demons that
had dragged down the bearer. It
seemed as though there were concen¬
tric circles of varying types, ar-
l’anged about a central point, and the
nearer we approached the center, the
more horrible and huge grew the in¬
dividuals that composed each belt. I
began to wonder what lay farther on!

“Again we shivered around a roar¬
ing fire, speaking only in low whis¬
pers. The natives believed that our
besiegers were forest devils, enraged
at us for intruding into their private
fastnesses.

‘ ‘ Several times I feared for my life
that night, for dark looks were cast

at me, and twice there were those who
advised strongly that I should be
flung out to the filthy things as a sac¬
rifice. But they could not quite
screw up their courage to that point,
for they knew that I would not sub¬
mit tamely, and they feared that the
taste of blood might enrage the crea¬
tures into a rush which would wipe
out the survivors.

“A sleepless night! A night of
horror, beneath gloating, incredibly
malignant eyes! A night that was a
cross-section of eternity!

‘ ‘ A bout two hours before morning,
I dozed off, being startled
awake again almost instantly by yells
of fright. Before me just outside the
firelight crouched a gigantic mon¬
strosity, hairy and tremendous. Its
bloated abdomen was barred with
black and silver, the head almost hid¬
den from sight by a yellow mop of
fur, from which projected jet-black
mandibles, furiously vibrating as it
watched us through red, vicious eyes.

“Behind those eyes, I sensed a per¬
sonality, keenly intelligent. I found
myself waiting for the frightful thing
to speak and was horrified at the
thought. You can not credit, I know,
but I who saw am telling you the
truth. I believed then, that fearful
spider was as intelligent as you or I,
in a more limited way, and I can as¬
sure you it is an absolute fact
that the other hideous vermin ac¬
knowledged it as their superior!

‘ ‘ It stood at least a foot and a half
high and I should judge that it would
have tipped the scales at about twen¬
ty pounds. It walked about the fire
at a safe distance, and carefully ob¬
served us twice from all angles. Then
it moved off in a westerly direction
and we saw the others draw back
from in front of it respectfully, leav¬
ing a broad path, down which it
passed, and they closed in solidly
again.

WEIRD TALES

“The same actions took place as on
the preceding morning. Scatteringly
they vanished with the dawn, leaving
a few stragglers that seemed to regret
the necessity that drove them off.

“There was no question now about
what we should do. Rather than
spend another such night, we would
have braved a thousand savages.
About 10 o’clock in the forenoon
therefore we started back, but we had
gone too far. Before we had gone a
mile on our back-trail, we heard rust¬
ling in the bushes and crepitant pat¬
tering as of many raindrops, while
sometimes we could see small gray
bodies bounding along beside us.

“Still we pressed on. The march
became a trot, and the trot a wild
disorderly rout. We flung away our
packs, our weapons, and our clothes
in a mad dash for anywhere, but
away! We mounted a small knoll
and looked back. A sea of gray, black
and red lapped around us, like an
island almost level with the water,
over which the waves threaten mo¬
mentarily to break. Slowly from all
sides they crept in, rising higher like
the chill waters of death. We broke
clubs from the trees and prepared to
die.

“Then came that horror of the
night, hustling on from the west, with
five companions that matched it in
size. The resistless torrent that was
just lapping over the crest of the
knoll stopped and receded. The six
came closer, scrutinized us and start¬
ed back down the bank, pausing about
ten feet away as though we were ex¬
pected to follow.

“We did! We all had the same
thought at once, to kill the most hid¬
eous ones and then as many more as
we could before we died. So we ran
down the slope, and the man in front
of me crashed his club through the
largest of the six.

“Instantly we were covered from
head to foot with crawling insects,

and as we rolled over and over,
shrieking and howling with fear, feel¬
ing the spiders pop and squelch be¬
neath our weight like ripe plums, an
acrid nauseous stench arose.

“As we lay there, half dead with
sick terror, I noticed that no more
were on me, the masses had with¬
drawn, and one of the larger insects
stood very close to my face, on each
ebony mandible a drop of venom glis¬
tening. Perhaps it was our first vis¬
itor, but they all looked alike to me.

• “I jumped up. The Indians lay on
a red noisome carpet of crushed bod¬
ies and we were all covered with a
pulpy mess. One by one they stood
up, and we discovered that not one of
us had been bitten. Then the hordes
opened invitingly again a westward
path, and we walked down it as pris¬
oners. The prisoners of insects!

“But one stayed behind. He was
the man who had destroyed the large
spider. Apparently at a signal, the
mass closed in about him, cutting him
off from the rest of us. He tried to
run to us, as they forced us down the
trail, but in an instant he was a stag¬
gering bellowing heap of vermin, that
tottered a few steps and went down.
Before we were out of sight, his howls
had become moans, and we knew what
the end would be.

“So with*one of the great, yellow¬
headed brutes in the lead, one at each
side of us, and two bringing up the
rear, we came again to the fatal
tamio number 10 and passed west¬
ward, following the brook, the swarms
surrounding us on all sides, as thickly
packed as leaves.

3. THE SPIDER KING

“ A bout a mile farther on, the brook

emptied into a small river.
This we followed down the right-
hand bank, till the middle of the aft¬
ernoon, when we struck a well defined
path, hard beaten by much travel.

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

“The throng of gray spiders now
began to disappear, having reached
their farthest boundary, the five black
and silver guards still remaining,
and many of the red and sable fel¬
lows. But when a short time later,
the path was barred by an immense
crowd of frightful monsters, similar
to those that guarded us, the small
spiders also returned to their own
zone.

“Just as dusk was falling, we
marched out of the jungle into the
open, and, surrounded by hundreds
of silver-barred brutes, were forced
down an incline into a valley. It was
bare of vegetation, and in the center
stood several stone buildings clus¬
tered about a larger and more pre¬
tentious edifice. These were window¬
less and doorless, being entered
through a trap in the flat roof. They
made me think of the nests of trap¬
door spiders.

“As we neared these buildings, a
jaguar, or tigre, as the natives term
it, came racing down the valley, and
behind it poured a hideous mob that
hid the ground from sight beneath a
palpitant, undulating surface that
made my skin crawl to watch. He
staggered nearer as though he sought
the protection of man, and I saw that
his tongue hung out as he panted in
the last throes of exhaustion. On the
beast’s back rode a large spider,
which urged the poor animal on to
death, and as they reached the near¬
est building, sank its poison into the
beast’s spine, and El Tigre dropped
like a stone.

“Now we saw a forecast of our own
fate. It was plain that we had been
brought to this gathering place to be
butchered. Meat on the hoof, less
troublesome to bring than if it were
dead!

“A wave of frightened animals
dashed up, a chattering monkey or
two, many hares, snakes that writhed
in agony, half crippled by bites and
dragged along by their captors, liz¬

ards that hissed with mouths wide
open. The lizards were the only ones
that fought.

“Then from the western valley
wall, another herd poured down, a
great anaconda coiling beside a clus¬
ter of peccaries closely bunched to¬
gether and squealing with terror, and
behind all a swarm of hunters.

“Never before had I seen so many
different breeds of spiders dwelling in
amity with one another, and again I
had the impression that these were
intelligent, reasoning beings hunting
together for the good of the many,
and as far above the ordinary spider
as the Anglo-Saxon is above the Aus¬
tralian Bushman.

“Now we were gathered in a clus¬
ter about the stone huts, hunters and
hunted, a motley crew herded from
all points of the compass over a twen¬
ty-mile radius, and the spiders set up
a vast clacking of mandibles and
emitted little hungry yearning cries.

“In answer, I heard thuds on the
low roofs as the trap-doors fell back,
and from each structure crawled a
creature that dwarfed our captors
into insignificance. It was a disgust¬
ing, heart-stopping sight, and our
stomachs retched as we saw eight
enormous spiders, each the size of a
horse. But it was not their incredible
size and filthiness, nor their bloated
bodies which betokened an unthink¬
able age, that so horrified our
souls! It was the look of an incredi¬
ble, superhuman knowledge within
their eyes, a knowledge not of this
earth or era, a look as they saw us
that might shine in the eyes of
Lucifer, conscious of a kingdom or a
world that had been gained, ruled and
lost! And I knew that they looked
upon us as an upstart race, born to
serve, that had by a freakish accident
turned the tables on our masters.

“This, I say, I read in their eyes,
but my memory may be colored by
the things I later knew.

632

WEIRD TALES

“The monsters pounced down, se¬
lecting the choicest foods before
them. One seized the carcass of a
deer and bore it to the roof-top, mum¬
bling down its juices, which would
soon leave it a dry mummified husk
of bones and hide. Another selected
a large peccary or wild pig, and a
third chose a savage lizard that killed
three of the black and silver guards
before it was stung into helplessness.

“A man was snatched from my
side, shrieking as he was dragged to
the roof-top and down into the build¬
ing, his cries cut short by the shut¬
ting of the trap.

“Then one took me by the side and
I gave myself up for dead. I have
read of men that have been caught
by lions, clawed and bitten, but feel
no pain till long after they have been
rescued. So it was with me. I felt
neither pain nor fear as I was borne
to the roof as a mouse is carried by
a cat, but only regret that I might
have done so many things that now I
should never live to do.

“The creature dropped me upon
the stone roof and inspected my cloth¬
ing, which seemed to puzzle it. Then
with a talon, it felt of my skin, whose
whiteness I do not doubt was unfa¬
miliar. Daintily and with exceeding
care, it sank its hollow fangs into my
arm and commenced the drinking of
my blood. I felt no pain, only a haze
before my eyes and a giddiness as I
fainted.

“TTp from an unfathomable abyss
of sleep I swam, cleaving my
way to consciousness with mighty
strokes. I opened my eyes and saw
that I still lived.

“I was lying on the roof with the
eight horrors around me. The sun
was set like a jewel, upon a mountain
top. nearly at the day’s close. The
valley was a shambles, covered with
spiders gruesomely feasting.

“One seemed to be communicating

with the others. He was the largest
of all and appeared to be in power,
so that later I dubbed him King.
This was the one that had chosen me
and had, curiously, not finished his
meal.

“Now one at a time, each came up,
placed its fangs upon my wounded
arm and tasted of my blood. When
all had done this, there was another
silent colloquy, and finally at some
mysterious signal, several of the
guards in silver took me off the roof,
half carrying, half dragging me to
another building, into which I was
dropped and the door, closed down.

‘ ‘ The air inside was fresh and pure,
ventilated through the cracks in the
rude walls. A dim light that seeped
in revealed that there were no fur¬
nishings in the room except a low
dais in one corner, obviously built
for one of the great spiders, and a
runway that slanted from the floor
to the roof door. The interior was
swathed in webs, so thickly hung that
it seemed a tapestry. I tore down
part of this, to admit more light, but
the sun sank below the mountains.

“I slept a dreamless sleep, upon
the dais, getting what consolation I
could from the thought that tomor¬
row was another day, and at any rate
I was seeing things that had not been
seen before.

4. INQUISITION

‘ ‘ T woke with a start. The light of

-*• morning poured down through
the open trap, but as I was consider¬
ing the advisability of climbing up
the runway, a large body filled the
opening and backed down like a cat
descending a tree. Half-way down,
the spider king reversed ends and
came head first, sliding down the pol¬
ished slide, worn smooth by many
great bodies.

“I stood up, dizzy with the pain
of my wounded arm, which had be¬
gun to fester overnight.

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

633

“The monster approached, took my
arm in his mandibles and apparently
observed that it was enormously swol¬
len, for he shifted his hold and
cleaned out the wound with a talon,
afterward injecting something by
means of his hollow mandibles. The
pain lessened and in three days the
swelling was gone and I was well on
the road to recovery. After this nat¬
ural antiseptic had commenced its
work, my captor exuded a quantity
of raw web material from one of his
triple-jointed spinnerets, and placed
the sticky mass upon my arm, where
it dried and hardened.

“He then stared unblinking into
my eyes for several minutes, and
again I had the impression of a
mighty intelligence in that loathsome
carcass that wished to communicate
with mine. Finding that I made no
response, the king urged me toward
the runway by shoves, and with his
assistance I managed to reach the roof
and looked around me.

“The day was fair. Not a living
thing moved in the valley, except a
few of the guards busy dragging
away the skeleton of a sloth. None
of my Indians were visible, but I
guessed their fate. All had perished
in the night, and I was the only sur¬
vivor.

“The king carried me to water, his
fangs gripped in my clothes, and I
drank deeply, after which I was car¬
ried back to the hut, and dropped in
like a sack of meal. About an hour
later, the trap opened, and a live
agouti dropped in, and the door fell.

“I wondered if I was supposed to
eat the little rabbitlike animal, but I
wasn’t hungry enough for that, so I
lay down upon the dais and nursed
my throbbing arm, while my fellow
prisoner hid under the runway and
the morning dragged along to mid¬
day.

“The spider king appeared a sec¬
ond time and investigated my condi¬

tion. When he saw that the wound
was not so angrily inflamed, he eyed
me gravely, with a sage air of ponder¬
ing the case, for all the world like a
little German doctor of my acquaint¬
ance. I almost expected to hear him
say, ‘Ach, dot is goot!”

“Again he assisted me to climb the
polished slide, and upon the roof I
found the other monsters. My captor
set me down, with a proud air of
showing off a curiosity to an interest¬
ed audience, and squatted down
where he could look into my eyes.

“I observed that the entire eight
were males and wondered whether
there were others in the buildings.
If so they must be frightful indeed,
for the female spider is usually larger
and more ferocious than her mate,
and often uses him as food when
other dainties run low in the larder.

“Engrossed with such thoughts, I
failed to notice at first that objects
around me were growing hazy and
vague in outline. It was as though
gauze curtains were being lowered be¬
tween me and the spiders. They
dimmed until I strained my eyes to
see them, then another curtain de¬
scended and the world went dark.

“It seemed that inside my skull the

A brain began to itch (I can
think of no better simile), as though
a light tendril of cobweb had been
laid across it. Cautiously searching,
the feeler groped in the convolutions
of niy brain, an intangible finger tick¬
ling until my skin crawled and my
hair rose. Occasionally it paused
with a firm pressure, and at this I
saw bright flecks in the dark and
heard a crackling, like an electric cur¬
rent leaping a spark gap. Then sud¬
denly, connections were established,
my mind and the spider’s were en
rapport and my memory was probed
and read like an open book by the
spider king. I felt a great loss of

WEIRD TALES

energy, as though my life forces were
being sapped.

“Of what the king learned from
me, I have a very slight knowledge.
In the light of later discoveries, I
suppose that he obtained very con¬
cise information about the outer
world, but only fragments of scenes
leaked to me through the gray fog
that shrouded my brain.

“Once, I remember, I was reading
in a picture-book, learning my al¬
phabet under the guidance of an elder
child. I had not seen or thought of
that child before for years, but now
her face with all its freckles was as
clear before me as the book from
which I read. Then the vision was
wiped away and again the gray mist
shut in. Next I was walking the
crowded streets of a city. I recog¬
nized Times Square in New York, I
paused to speak to a friend that ap¬
proached me; the meeting had taken
place long ago, but I wonder if you
can understand this ? While we
were conversing, I entertained the
most cannibalistic thoughts. liter¬
ally, I regretted that I had not
sprang at his throat and devoured
that man, and he was one. of the best
friends that a man has ever had. I
could not conceive how I had missed
such a wonderful opportunity. To
roam for days in crowded cities, with
wonderful food all about me and
never to feast, when it could have
been obtained so easily!

“Again the fog closed. I realized
that those thoughts had been* not
mine, but the spider king’s.

“I was reading in a library, read¬
ing of people. Other people walked
by me, sat beside me, brought me
books. Such a wealth of delicious
food,—in the outer world! Come!
I shall go there! Never again shall
I look with jaded eye upon my
neighbor. He is sweet, he is dainty,
he is nutritious, there is a peculiar
savor about him that no other animal

possesses! To the hunting grounds
then, where there is meat enough for
all!

“But what do I say and think?
All is a lie! There are no people,
no libraries, no books. There is
nothing but a vast sea of clouds, of
spiraling vapors, in which I float, a
being .smaller than the atom! There
is a sound of many singing, a low
and melancholy chant. If I can
understand the words, I shall be free.
Hush! Let me listen closer. Now
the song is nearer, a wild unearthly
chant, and now the voices strengthen
and now the words are clear! And
now I see a vast concourse of people,
with skins the hue of brass, and they
float from out the mists, while out¬
stretched are pleading hands, hands
of men, and chubby baby hands,
beautiful well-kept hands of young
and lovely women, and wrinkled,
sallow hands of the very old! Hands
that point me out, as I float lost in
eddying vapors, hands that clench in
anger, hands that plead and entreat
in a language of their own, while
their owners sing words quite differ¬
ent. All the universe seems a tan¬
gled knot of hands that twist and
twine! Oh God! And all the voices
sing in tones of dolor and of wo:

“All the suns are impotent to succor us.

In a vast dungeon barred with ever-
shafting rain;

When a silent people of spiders infamous

Have come to weave their filaments
upon our brain.

“But the knotted hands and fin¬
gers, as they squirm and tangle, com¬
mand with many voices: ‘ Avenge us!
Avenge ns!! Vengeance!!!’ And as
I swear that I will, I break through
the clinging mists and find myself
upon the stone roof in the city of
spiders!

“With a start-, I realized that the
last vision had been given to me
alone. The spider king had no ink¬
ling of my command, or of my ad-

THE CITY OP SPIDERS

635

ceptance! How did I know this? I
can not tell. ' I only knew with sure¬
ty, that I possessed one secret from
my jailers.

"Tt was dusk again. From the west-

I em wall began to pour the hunt¬
ers, driving their prey to the slaugh¬
tering grounds. The king carried me
to the hut, and dropped me in. The
trap closed.

“I had spent almost six hours in a
trance, and I wondered what these
beings had learned in that time, be¬
sides the scraps that I had retained.
I felt empty, not only physically, but
mentally, as though all my cherished
knowledge had been brutally stolen
and nothing had been put in its place.
But I ran over my memories, and I
seemed normal. It was a wild and
uncanny experience.

“Outside was a pandemonium of
shrieks and howls. The roar of some
gigantic animal boomed close to my
hut and the wall trembled. The lit¬
tle agouti crept out from under the
runway and cuddled its head in my
lap. It was shivering in an agony
of terror. I stroked it, and it shud¬
dered violently but nudged closer.

“A strident clicking like locusts
outside, and then again the eery wail
of a jaguar. It was filled with plain¬
tive amazement, as though the beast
could not credit what was happening
to him. Ah, strike with your heavy
paws, El Tigre, fight on, oh mighty
one! The master of the jungle at last
has met his master, and El Tigre
roams the forest nevermore!

“A long hiss, and I knew that an¬
other of the valiant lizards was tak¬
ing toll amongst his butchers, but
there were no more hisses, so the
sequel was plain.

‘ ‘ The dull roar of combat died
away, leaving only isolated squeaks
as a herd of wild pigs was brought
down, somewhere in the valley. And
then nothing, for when a spider dines,

he does so quietly and without undue
disturbance.

“A few minutes later, a large piece
of meat was flung in. I did not in¬
spect it too critically, but fell to at
once. It was raw, of course, but I
was ravenous, and a hungry man that
has not eaten for nearly three days
feels a surge of appetite for almost
anything that seems fit for food.
True, I had not killed the agouti, but
I had been so feverish with my wound
and the shock of my captivity that I
had then no desire for food.

“I slept upon the dais, until a
beam of moonlight struck through a
chink and lay across my eyes. I be¬
gan to worry about my chances for
escape, until I could no longer rest.
I went to the opening, and looked
out. It was a beautiful moonlit
night, the valley as far as I could
see was bare. It brought a plan into
my head and I tore down much of the
clinging webs, until I had exposed
the lower foundations of the hut. As
I expected, the large boulders were
filled in by small stones. I worried,
some of these loose, until I had
opened a passageway large enough
for a small man, but as I stooped to
remove the last stone, the little
agouti, seeing an opening to freedom,
dashed past me and out upon the
greensward. It had not gone ten feet
from the hut, when a black and silver
ghost was after it, and when it
doubled to return, several more
heaped themselves upon it.

“Very quietly, I replaced the
stones and wedged them tight; there
was no hope of escape at night for
me. Well, one can always sleep if
his nerves are iron, and finally I
dozed off, a philosophic prisoner.

5. THE FARTHER VISION
‘ ‘ Tj' ach morning, the spider king
carried me to water, and each
night I was fed. How I grew to
loathe raw meat, and how I yearned

r»36

WEIRD TALES

for green food, milk and salt! Some
nights I dreamed about salt, white
mountains of it, whieh I walked over
on snowshoes and slid down upon
toboggans and skis, every once in a
while reaching down and scooping up
great handfuls of it which I swal¬
lowed with relish. Often I awoke, to
find myself licking the palms of my
hands to get what saline content I
might out of the perspiration and
dreaming it was salt. Even now, I
season my food with salt to an extent
that makes it impossible for anyone
else to enjoy the meal but myself. I
grew thin, but my wound healed rap¬
idly and I had no more visions as
wild as the first one.

“The day after my abortive at¬
tempt to escape, my mind was probed
again. In all the lucid intervals I
remember, the only scenes I saw were
of people. Cities that swarmed like
hives, villages of people, and little
isolated houses and cottages. How
easy to storm one of those cottages,
so far from any neighbor! How easy
for that horde to conquer a small vil¬
lage and, flushed with victory, to ad¬
vance upon a city, with all the spiders
in the country flocking to our stand¬
ard! Perhaps even to wipe the con¬
tinent clean of Man, leaving this val¬
ley and establishing a rule elsewhere!

“And the night after that uncon¬
scious revelation, I began to suspect.
I had just come from an interview
with the king. As I satisfied my hun¬
ger, I tried to imagine the reasons
that led him to learn of the outer
world and to give me in turn
glimpses of the past For I had
learned strange things, which shall be
revealed in their place. Why had he
sampled my blood? Had they rel¬
ished the flavor, so different from the
natives, and were reserving me for an
especial tidbit or as a guide to places
where more of my kind might be
foundf

“Now I come to a point where I

must take care not to strain your
credulity to its limit, for I have
things to tell that have made me a
pariah in the scientific world. I am
the butt for the most idiotic and
asinine jokes, because I have told
what I saw, bald narrative, with no
fancy trimming of m ine to make it
more acceptable.

“And this is the story of Man’s
rise and fall. The story of the first
reasoning being upon earth, the ac¬
count of his inglorious servitude and
the miraculous freak that saved you
and me today from being hewers of
wood and drawers of water to an in-
seet!

“I put my separate visions into
short accounts as each was given to
me, for each vision holds within it a
fact, as each nut a kernel, and if I
made a connected story of the whole,
it would be more incoherent than in
the original form. There are blanks,
but use your imagination to fill them;
there may be faults of memory but
there is much that tallies with the
facts we know.

“Upon the third day of my im¬
prisonment, the king held communion
with me alone, the other spiders of
his species remaining in their huts.
Apparently having learned from me
all that he wished to know or all tha*
I could tell him, he opened a door
for me to read the past.

“In all the scenes which follow, a
word of explanation is necessary. I
was granted to peep into the past, it
is true, but there were bounds over
which I might not trespass. Often
thegray mists closed between me and
some enthralling picture that I
longed desperately to see more of. I
participated, by proxy, in battles and
was wounded, but never felt pain. I
was present at scenes of the most
frightful carnage, when the screams
and groans of the dying and the
howls of the victors must have pro-

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

637

duced a deafening din, but I heard no
sounds.

“Is it that the mind ean not hold
the memory of pain? I think so.
Hark back if you will, to the time
when you suffered with a sprained
ankle, a broken bone or a toothache.
You remember that you suffered, but
the pain in all its varying, degrees
you can not call back to say, ‘At such
a moment I felt these sensations.’

“But in regard to sounds, I believe
that the sense of hearing in spiders
is slight, and I doubt that these had
ever possessed it at all.

“It seemed as though I was clos¬
eted within a small compartment. I
watched a magic panorama that un¬
reeled before my eyes, as a motion
picture operator might observe the
screen from' his projection booth.
Then the reel would end, the lights
fade and all my world became a
whirling fog.

“These, then, are the discoveries
that I made and the facts that I
learned from them, as I beheld the
most marvelous drama that it has
ever been given a man to witness.

“T stood by the shore of a stagnant

A lake, which was covered with a
thick slimy growth that undulated
with oily ripples, as though some
great animal moved beneath it, for
there was no wind. To my right, the
ground was carpeted with a lush
growth of coarse vegetation over
which danced a maze of insects. I
saw dragonflies whose gauzy wings
would measure several feet from tip
to tip, whirl in mimic battle. A pro¬
cession of gigantic ants near-sightedly
wove their tortuous path among the
thick clumps of mushrooms that stud¬
ded the fern-forest like varicolored
jewels embedded in dark green plush.

“Abore me a dome of clouds was
spread, that marched from left to
right, drizzling a fine mist as they
passed. No sun or moon was visible,

but a soft lambent light shone
through the clouds, diffused by the
mist, so that the landscape was well
illuminated.

“A multitude of living creatures
swarmed in the skies, but as far as I
could see there moved no mammalian
life as we know it. A thing that I
took for a vulture hovering high,
dropped and became on closer inspec¬
tion a huge wasp, that darted down
into the ferns and rose with a kicking
insect in its claws, darting swiftly
across the lake. All life seemed to
be represented by insects!

“It seemed as though I was called,
although I heard no sound. I turned,
to behold a like scene to that I had
been watching. A stone pier pro¬
jected out above the slimy liquid.
From this platform a path wound in¬
to the shrubbery. This I expectantly
watched, waiting for the one who had
signaled to come in sight. Presently
the ferns swayed and a huge bulk
lumbered down to the pier.

‘ ‘ It was an immense spider, similar
in size to the king, but it was a dull
brown and hairless, its skin as thick
and tough as sole-leather and oozing
moisture. I was not surprized by the
sight, for I had expected this, and I
knew with the calm acceptance of the
most amazing facts that we meet only
in dreams, that I was also a spider,
or at least looking through the eyes
of one for a time.

“I understood, or rather my con¬
trol understood (for this took place
long, long ago), that I was to fbllow,
and we two started along the path.
Once we stopped to allow an army of
ants, similar to driver ants, to cross
our rirate. We were unseen by them,
so that they passed on devouring
everything that lay before them and
leaving a wide swath of desolation,
bare of any living thing. A short
time after this, we came on a wido
plain that hummed with activity.
Spiders of all types were there, hust-

WEIRD TALES

ling to and fro, herding beasts before
them in small bands, toward a large
stockade that was built of stone. One
of these bands had stopped, and a
hubbub was taking place. As we
neared this commotion, I saw that
these beasts were sometimes standing
erect and sometimes upon all fours,
and coming closer still, I beheld that
their skins were white and that they
were men!

“Men, I say, but not as men are
now. Their faces were dull and
stupid, their bodies were grossly fat,
and like sheep they crowded together
for mutual protection. A very few
were thin and wiry, more energetic
than the others and more daring.
These few were leaving their own
bands and were clustering about the
scene of trouble, only to be forced
back by a guard of small spiders like
the black and silver fellows, but these
guards were almost hairless, having
only the yellow crest of fur that de¬
noted their rank. There were many
of the rulers, packed into a knot
which disentegrated as I came up, and
I saw that the center of the disturb¬
ance was a man.

“Quickly the situation was ex¬
plained to me, and I gathered that
the slave had killed a spider. At my
order, he was seized; and we returned
to the lake, followed by most of the
spiders and all of the men.

“He was forced to walk out upon
the stone pier, and as he did so the
surface of the liquid began to eddy
fiercely. He came nearer and the
slime rose and lapped the surface of
the pier. Then he turned to run back,
but already the mucilaginous liquid
had him thickly by the feet. Slowly
it crawled up his knees, his thighs
and chest, while his mouth gasped
wide for air, or with a cry that I
could not hear. Then the sticky slime
retreated into the lake and with it
went the slave.

“Thus were offenders against the

spider’s law punished for an object
•lesson to the rest!

“The mob trooped back into the
forest, and as I marched I pondered
upon my surroundings. This was
clearly a younger world than mine.

“An inner voice began to explain
that this was a past unthinkably re¬
mote, a period of time when the
equator and the temperate zones were
still in a state of flux, when the equa¬
tor was one roaring belt of volcanoes
that belched lava and ashes into the
hissing seas that rose in steam to ob¬
scure half the world in clouds.
Countless eons would yet elapse be¬
fore Atlantis and its sister-continent,
Mu, would be raised from the oceans
to breed a civilization upon each and
then to sink again, the one beneath
the blue waters of the Pacific and the
other in the ocean which bears its
name!

“But while the rest of the world
was unfit for life, at the tropical
polar countries the earth was cooi
enough to support vegetation in
abundance, and where vegetation is,
creatures will be found to live upon
it.

“Here, as the different species com¬
menced the race for supremacy, the
insects forged ahead. The spiders,
being the most intelligent and, save
man, the most savage, had become the
dominant reasoning beings of the
globe. Man, arising later, was bred
for food, and his spirit broken. But
now and again one rose and struck
back with the results I had seen.

“The voice died away, and as I
marched I thought that it was some¬
thing, after all, that a man dared to
rebel. At any rate he was not fully
conquered, and at this thought, it
seemed as though I had learned my
lesson from the episode, the misty
clouds lowered and shrouded me in
gray, and with a great roaring in my
ears I passed from that era.

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

639

* ‘ T stood upon a mountain that over-

A looked a dreadful chasm. A
fierce gale was sweeping along the
heights and there were no clouds in
the sky. Around me were grouped
several of the rulers, shivering in the
wind, their hides hut little protec¬
tion against the cold. The air was
no longer warm and sticky and I
knew that we were seeking a warmer
climate.

“To my left, at the foot of the
mountain, there was a plain that was
swarming with the beastmen, all con¬
verging toward the ravine, with a
multitude of spiders herding them on.

“Thus far we had come unhin¬
dered on our march from the cooling
pole, but a mountain range across our
path had barred our progress until we
had discovered a way to pass through.
On the other side of the range dwelt
a nation of men that had never known
the spiders’ rule, tall and slim and
of noble aspect. A budding civiliza¬
tion that we obliterated from exist¬
ence. This nation was formed of
many small cities, built of stone and
wood and walled in for protection
against the beasts and other men,
more savage than beasts as they are
at this day. They probably had some
commerce with one another, some
trade, some slight banding together
against a common foe, but we spiders
learned little of their life, for we
smashed that nation and fed upon its
people. But I anticipate.

“There was fighting in the chasm.
A small troop of brass-hued men
armed with spears and slings were
bitterly contesting the advance of our
armies. The pass was glutted with
bodies forced on by the pressure of
the masses behind, who in turn were
forced on by the spiders. Timid and
weak as were our slaves, by their very
numbers they were a power to reckon
with, and though they feared the men
that held the pass, they dreaded the

spiders more. Gradually they were
winning through.

“From our height we could see that
the brass-faced defenders were strik¬
ing weaker blows. They were whit¬
tling away the head of the column
still, but for every man that fell, two
sprang into his place. There were
dead in that crowd that had been
slain at the beginning of the battle
and were standing erect in the press,
heads idiotically lolling from side to
side, unable to fall!

“We moved along the mountain¬
side, keeping the fighting beneath us.
The ravine began to widen and our
enemy had a greater front to cover,
giving our beastmen an advantage
which they speedily took.

“Now came a hungry horde of
spiders, swooping past me down the
mountain, that flung themselves up¬
on the weary defenders of the pass,
and over their bodies the beastmen
rushed in mad scramble from the
monsters that crowded them on.

“My band followed down the
mountain wall and came finally to the
new land of promise. Beyond the
entrance to the pass, a walled city
stood, gates barred and parapets
manned with warriors that pelted
our masses with stones and sleeting
flights of arrows.

“But while the clumsy slaves scat¬
tered on the plain, we spiders with
grim resolve scaled the walls, which
offered no barrier to our taloned
limbs. The brass-hued men fought
bravely, but we mastered them and
the city was ours.

“About a mile away, another city
was beleaguered, and as the spiders
rose along the wall, smoke began to
rise from the huts within, in ever-
increasing abundance. The people in
despair had fired their homes, in sad
preference for the fiery death to the
worse fate that awaited them. The
grass-thatched roofs made a roaring

640

WEIRD TALES

hell of the city and the spiders were
driven back.

“Now farther upon the plain, an¬
other pillar of smoke began to rise,
and then a third, until all the cities
had followed the example set by their
brave countrymen, and as a nation
the brass-hued race perished in the
ruins of their homes.

“So it was that sorrow crossed the
mountains, and there was weeping
and wailing in the land.

“T stood again before the spider

A king, through whose memory I
had searched the past, as through
mine he had explored the present.
The blood began to circulate through
my numbed limbs, prickling like a
thousand needles. I felt as though
I had traveled far.

“My guards carried me to the dun¬
geon, dropped in a shoulder of veni¬
son and left me alone. I fell upon
the raw meat, wolfing it down in
great mouthfuls, and as I ravenously
satisfied my hunger I tried to imag¬
ine the reasons that led the king to
learn of the outer world and to give
me, in turn, glimpses of the past.

“Clearly, this was his method of
relating his people’s history, but why
trouble himself at all ? Why not slay'
me as he had the natives? I could
only decide that I was being reserved
for a guide to the outer world! They
had relished the taste of my blood!

“On pondering over the visions, I
recognized the chant of the brass-
hued people to be a quotation from
one of the poems of Baudelaire, but
in the age when those beings fought
the spiders, unthinkable periods of
time would yet elapse before men be¬
gan to dream of rime. I eventually
reached the conclusion that if I had
seen a vision and made a promise,
the impression that the pleading
voices had desired to convey to me
struck a chord in my subconscious
mind that nearly equaled that eery

verse, so that in semi-stupor I fancied
they chanted in the words of the
French poet. I still believe that my
theory is correct, but I wonder often
what they really did say ? The vision
was so very real!

“I decided that each episode took
place in the life of a different spider,
and by the clearness of each vision, it
would seem to indicate that the spider
king recalled the incidents in his
various reincarnations, or that lack¬
ing the written word to preserve his¬
tory, this race had developed the
ability of storing facts in their brain
eells that were passed from one gen¬
eration to another as physical attrib¬
utes sometimes are with men.

“In all of these glimpses, I saw as a
spider; I thought as a spider; I
looked upon men as beasts of burden,
created for the well-being of the
spider people, an unclean miserable
race, but necessary for our slaves.

“Thus they lifted themselves to a
dangerous pinnacle, upon a founda¬
tion of sand, by depending so much
upon a lower race of beings for their
own existence. History is full of such
errors. For look you! Your slave
revolts or dies, with nothing to lose
and all to gain, and if he succeeds—
where are the rulers then? If he
fails, progress has stopped or has been
delayed, but it is the overlords that
bear the expense, not the slaves.
They can but die, and a dead or crip¬
pled slave is not of much value!

“Steadily after the smashing of
this polar raee, the breed deteriora¬
ted, civilization came to a halt for
ages and began to retrogress. This
was the true dark age for mankind,
the faint dim remembrance of which
has persisted in the myth of the Gar¬
den of Eden and the driving forth of
Adam and Eve, a primeval people,
into the wilderness. All that saved
the world today from being ruled by
spiders, is the unknown cataclysm
that caused the first Ice Age, when

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

641

the world grew cold and the glaciers
ground down from the North. The
spiders died in the cold, being a trop¬
ical race, and only those that could
adapt themselves to the changing con¬
ditions, growing warm coats of hair
and becoming smaller and more live¬
ly, continued to exist.

“Perhaps you can imagine the an¬
tiquity of this period of change when
you realize that all fossil spiders or
those preserved in amber, that have
yet been found, are the same size as
those we know today!

“As they became smaller, some of
the larger types persisted as freaks
—still the rulers, but gradually losing
their hold on man. Here then fol¬
lows the story of the Great Migration.

6. BEFORE TEE CAVEMEN

“ T was allowed to rest a day, with-

J- out seeing the king, and the next
morning I was brought forth and
commenced the last series of visions,
the first scene apparently taking
place many years after the taking of
the city.

“A slash of purple light cleft the
vapory haze and it rolled back before
me, as a curtain rises at a play. I
was on the roof of the central tower
in the city, the sun beating down with
but little warmth. It had lost a third
of its former size and brilliance.

“The spider through whose eyes I
looked, moved nearer to the edge and
stood staring out over the city. The
roofs were covered with snow, a bank
of heavy clouds was gathering to the
left of the observatory, and the scene
was dismal in the extreme. The palm
trees that originally had appeared at
the taking of the city were gone and
in their places were gnarled, stunted
willows, whose bare limbs clattered
like a skeleton’s arms in the wind.

“Below, a procession was forming.
A new breed of spiders had arisen.
Half the size of the conquerors, they
were covered thickly with hair. Their

faces, which were turned toward my
tower as though in expectancy, por¬
trayed the savageness of fiends. Scat¬
tered thinly amongst the multitude
were larger spiders of the ancient
type, either throwbacks or survivals
of the original rulers.

“Here and there sat bands of men,
lowbrowed, hairy and brutalized. To
such had the human race retro¬
gressed! There were beasts of bur¬
den (and these also were men) that
tottered beneath their loads of coarse
vegetation intended for their own sus¬
tenance on the march. For this was
an emigration to seek a warmer cli¬
mate, and the city was being deserted.

“Climbing up the sheer wall came
a large spider, as large as myself,
that stood beside me in silent commun¬
ion of minds. I gathered the impres¬
sion that all was ready and they wait¬
ed only for me. I followed my friend
into the street. My control shivered
and I knew it was bitter cold. We
took places at the head of the column
.and commenced the hegira. At the
city gates we stopped and looked back
for the last time.

“The clouds covered the sky, the
city was drab and deserted; we must
have been the last or nearly the last,
expedition to leave. A white flake
floated by my eyes, the pinnacles of
the tower were dull as lead: I swung
into my stride, the slaves lurched on.

“Man and his Master were on the
march! And over all the snow was
gently falling.

“Tt was night. Over my head the

a stars gleamed respendent. Count¬
less eons had passed, for the sky
showed familiar forms. The pole
star was the one we have always
known, but in a former vision it had
not been Polaris!

“I was some form of sentry, for I
was walking a regular beat around a
natural valley, accompanied by a
troop of guards. All along my path

642

WEIRD TALES

slept' the great spiders, who still
wielded the whip of power.

“In the valley were penned a saw-
age tribe of men, short, hairy and
bandy-legged, whose language was
composed mainly of signs and horrid
grimaces.

“I knew that onr control was slip¬
ping, for it was against these that I
guarded my comrades' sleep. The
day before, the slaves had arisen and
fled to the forests, many escaping
from the horde of small spiders that
rulers had perished in the fight, and
had pursued them. Several of the
we decided to move again.

“This was the last watch. Soon
the horizon flushed ruddy with the
rising sun and the business of the day
began.

“Prom the thickets came all that
were left of the gigantic spiders. We
allowed the guard to release the
slaves, and after they had gathered
their possessions we traveled along
the sandy shore. The spiders kept
to the rear as the men shambled
along, heads swinging from side, to
side as they peered viciously for signs
of game in the sand. Ice floes drifted
in the billows, grinding against the
cliffs that we were nearing.

“Suddenly the men sniffed like
dogs as they caught a scent, and we
saw great tracks in the sand. They
, started off in a wide circle that finally
led us to the foot of a tremendous
glacier, where our game turned to
faco us. It was a hairy mammoth,
his tusks curving like hoops, the
points a little below the eyes.

“The men surged about him throw¬
ing spears and stones, and a multi¬
tude of small spiders swarmed over
him until the great beast was a heap
of vermin and his sides ran blood.
Like a falling mountain he crashed'
to earth, raining spiders that leaped
for safety, and we rulers, careful as
usual of ourselves, advanced to the
feast.

“As from a distance we watched
the smaller spiders feasting, and the
slaves resting near the glaeier cliff
on the thin strip of beaeh that sep¬
arated them from the sea, suddenly a
lump of ice dropped, splintering,
from the sky, and following with
quick descent came others! Then be¬
tween us and the men. roared an
avalanche of ice boulders, raising a
barrier unclimbable.

“We dashed, scattering, to the
land, and behind us the beach was
black with spiders, pouring a mighty
river, racing for life before the ad¬
vancing glaeier, grinding the roeks to
powder beneath it as a fissure rent
it along a mile-long front!

“And as we looked back, we saw
that long quiet torrent of ice in mo¬
tion at last, for as a shot or a whoop
is sufficient to start an avalanche of
snow in menacing charge and men
frown upon one who whistles or sings
beneath a snowy slope of the Alps,
so the titanie thud of the mammoth’s
fall, the earth-shaking crash of his
sudden death, had startled the glaeier
into nervous leap. And now, sep¬
arated from the parent body of ice,
the mighty cliff towered toppling to¬
ward the sea and moved, ponderously
staggering like a drunken world,
crowding the slaves and pounding
thinner the ribbon.

“The men panted, so far behind
us as we gained the outside rim, that
they were cut off. Madly they tore
back and forth along the ever-nar¬
rowing beaeh, some swimming in the
icy water, some falling upon their
spears in superstitions dread of the
devils of the sea, whose fins cut the
waves as they feasted on the bodies
of our slaves. Then the glacier moved
inevitably on, entered the water, and
the face thundered down with a
splash that sent a wave lapping
against our feet.

“Titanic icebergs floated in the
tossing sea, monuments to the last of

THE CITY OP SPIDERS

643

ottr slaves, that marked the resting
place of the remnants of the brass-
hued race.

“No more slaves! No more civili¬
zation for the spiders! Hereafter we
would hunt our own food, fight our
own battles, build our own shelters,
becoming more savage and more tiny
with the years, until we were tolerat¬
ed parasites in the palaces of men!
Our destiny was that we should clear
the filth and pests from the homes of
an upstart, minor, inferior race of
men, but still that time was far in
the future.

“Then followed many snapshots of
the past, so that I followed in quick
glimpses the fate of that wandering,
deteriorating band of spiders whose
ancestors had conquered a world.

“Driven by the ever-advancing
cold, they traveled south, deserted
always by bands that stayed behind
while the main body kept on. Always
it was the smallest that lagged be¬
hind, the fiercest, the ugliest, the
least intelligent! It is their progeny
that spins the webs in forest, farm
and field and in the end comes to in¬
herit the proudest edifices of human¬
ity.

“As the years were left behind us,
our numbers decreased, until from
millions we had become thousands,
our rulers could be numbered by
hundreds. Prom time to time we met
other bands, some with slaves, but
most without. Often we fought with
these, for the years had made such
differences in the species that we
could no longer understand our fel¬
low invaders. We saw brutal tribes
of men, armed with stone hatchets
and clubs, who gave us a wide berth.
These were not the descendants of the
polar race, but had evolved separate¬
ly. We saw others, yet to evolve, and
great apes, semi-arboreal, that were
beginning to learn the possibilities
that lay in the human thumb for
grasping tools.

“But we passed on, our numbers
dwindling ever, skirted volcanoes
that thundered at us and slew many,
fought through the terrible storms of
that time, smashed by the pitiless
hail, buried by avalanches, and at last
found peace, those that were left of
us, in the primeval jungles, where no
glaciers could ever reach; and here
we made a home. We built houses
with the aid of savages that roamed
where we had determined to settle,
and fed upon their bodies afterward.
We established the rings of different
species of spiders about our central
community and about a hundred of
our rulers, all that remained to carry
on the race.

“And here in the heart of the
steaming forests we dwelt, no more
of our progeny being born, for our
age was great, but as our numbers
decreased by natural deaths and the
years gave us an infernal cunning
our ambition rose to the point where
we had almost decided to move again.
But what lay outside our home ? That
was the question which gave us pause.
Should we again brave the crunching
glaciers and the bellowing volcanoes?

“But if the glaciers had fought the
volcanoes and had been destroyed,
then perhaps there were men again.
Not the tough and unsavory savages
that our hunters sometimes brought
in, but large, fat and toothsome light-
colored brutes that we could again
rear in herds!

“And perhaps with the new food
would be found others of our race,
so that with their strength and our
cunning, centuries in development,
we should win to undreamed-of
heights, as under our crafty leader¬
ship our smaller spiders, less intelli¬
gent than their forebears, conquered
for us a world!

“At the next glimpse, there were
only sixty or seventy of the rulers,
the males predominating; and as the
years went on, this little band became

-644

WEIRD TALES

less until at my last vision I opened
the trap of my hut and only seven of
my fellows were to be seen on their
roofs, as we watched a herd of ani¬
mals gathered for the evening feast,
among them being brown naked men
and a peculiar white-faced man, cov¬
ered with a strange hide, the like of
which I had never seen before, and
whom I intended to dine upon!

“I, Jabez Pentreat, looked out
through the eyes of the spider king
and saw myself standing as I remem¬
bered I had stood, days before, as I
had waited for the great spiders to
pounce down from the roofs, and at
this unbelievable sight, the curtain of
gauze shut down and I realized I was
at the end of the road! This is the
only proof I have that my story is
true.

7. THE CITY IN THE SMOKE
“npHREE days later, being fully
cured of my wound, I was again
brought from the prison. The spiders
were waiting. The valley was acrawl
with vermin, whose dry rustling filled
the air with whispers. Yellow-headed
guards surrounded the huts, gray
devils mingled with the scarlet-barred
insects, huge black leaping tarantulas
were present in great numbers, but in
all that crowd I saw not a single in¬
sect whose bite is not poisonous to

‘ ‘ The spider king in his silent com¬
munication made it understood to me
that my life depended upon my abil¬
ity to guide them to the nearest com¬
munity of whites, and I consented
readily. Who would not have done
the same? I intended to lead them
to the river and take my chances of
escape there, knowing that they were
as careful as cats about entering
water, for although the king had
promised me my life, I had but little
faith in the promise.

“So on the eighth day of my cap¬
tivity we set out to the conquering of

an unsuspecting continent. I walked
in the center of the huge rulers’ for¬
mation. About us rustled an impos¬
ing troop of guards, and for miles on
each side the forest was filled with
our myrmidons, scattered far and
wide.

“How I feasted on fruit, that day!
As we passed the small brook at
tambo number 10, I caught some
small fish and ate them raw, and no
epicure ever tasted anything more de¬
licious than that meal was to me. The
drums growled again that night, as I
lay in the midst of the lightly sleep¬
ing horde, that quivered angrily at
my slightest movement.

“It took me, urged on by the
spiders, only seven days to cover the
distance that I had taken ten to ac¬
complish coming in.

“Toward night we began to hear
the roar of the Caroni River as it
struggled through a raudal, or rapid,
on its way to the Orinoco.

“Suddenly, about a mile ahead,
there burst out a pandemonium of
frightful screams that I recognized
as humans voicing inhuman terror.
The great brutes scuttled on faster,
so that I was hard put to keep my
place. Clouds of smoke rolled up
ahead of us from a campfire, and
presently we broke out of the forest
and saw the flames. A tribe of ugly
natives were trapped by the river,
where they had made camp in a clear¬
ing, building their fire on a sandy
spot. Around them, the tall reedlike
grass, shoulder-high to a tall man,
waved and shuddered and bent low
with the rush of the spider army.

* ‘ The men had been surrounded
and held until the arrival of the king,
and as we came up I recognized their
paint and tribal marks to be those of
the Guaharibo Indians, savage men
who slay for the love of murder and
who had roved from their home near
the upper reaches of the Orinoco,
searching for heads and loot.

THE CITY OF SPIDERS

645

"Many heads hung in the smoke,
partly cured,—and several of them
were white! At this sight, something
turned to steel with me, and had it
been possible to save them, I would
not if I could.

"I said to the king, ‘These are the
first.’ He understood my meaning if
not my words, and gave the signal
for the attack.

"A great wave of spiders broke
over the savages, clicking their bat¬
tle cry, leaping from one to another,
darting through the smoke. Seized
with the madness of slaughter, the
spider king and his fellows, to whom
this was a joy they had probably
been long without, charged with the
rest.

"In a second, I was forgotten and
absolutely alone! Dazed by the
marvel of it, I was yet not too blind
to seize my opportunity. Quickly,
yet with the utmost care, I crept to¬
ward the river where the log canoes
were drawn up on the shore and
pushed all off but one. Still the bat¬
tle raged.

“As I put one foot inside the
canoe, something gave me pause.
Again I heard the despairing, plead¬
ing cries of the brass-faced people
and saw those writhing hands that
swore me to vengeance. Stealthily I
crawled back to the fire, gathered an
armful of resinous, light wood, and
with a burning brand trailing behind
me set the grass aflame as I ran to
the canoe.

"I paddled upstream to where the
forest joined the clearing and beached
the canoe. The wind was blowing
strongly downstream. With my torch,
I lit stick after stick and hurled the
flaming wood far out into the field.
Then I drifted down and held my
position in midstream and waited.

"The battle was almost to its in¬
evitable end. The fire that I had
first lit was burning stubbornly into

the teeth of the wind, and now,
fanned to fury, a fifteen-foot wall of
flame came down with a whirring
roar to meet it!

"The fighting stopped. Man and
spider, both were doomed, and from
both sides the fire closed in. I yelled
in joy, howling crazy, broken curses.
Strange how much it looked like a
great city in the smoke, with flaming,
sputtering sheets of fire that lapped
its phantom walls! From that whirl¬
wind of sparks came a vast sound of
frying! I heard a bursting mutter
like gigantic kernels of corn popping
in an enormous pan. A wave of
sooty smoke, redolent of burned flesh,
rolled out over the river and set me
blind and coughing. As I wiped my
streaming eyes, a horrid thing stag¬
gered from the flames, little spikes
of fire shooting from its fat and
bloated body! Although his hair
was burned away and his mandibles
were gone, I recognized the spider
king. He lurched nearer and I saw
that he was blind, just as his charred
legs snapped with his weight and he
subsided into the river.

"The water boiled and hissed when
he struck it. Once he rose, lashing
feebly, and I beheld that his body
was swarming with little fish that
rent and tore pieces of flesh away.
These were the savage little piranhas,
the miniature fresh-water sharks that
give short shrift to anything that
falls within a school of them. Again
he came to the surface, the water
frothed a bloody foam and then the
last of the monster sank, in tatters,
into the Caroni!

"Not many of the others escaped;
after the fire had swept into the for¬
est I saw that the ground was black
with charred bodies, that lay in tum¬
bled heaps around the skeletons of
the Guaharibos. By easy stages, I
made my way to civilization, bear¬
ing a stupendous tale to my friends.

"I told them my story and said in

646

WEIRD TALES

substance, ‘While you have been
wasting your time for hundreds of
years, searching, back through the
ages; with pick and shovel scrabbling
in the dust of forgotten empires;
with arduous sifting of myths and
legends to find some small fact; with
titanic efforts of geological, biolog¬
ical and philological research to bring
the past nearer, the link that could
tell you all you wish to know—is
hunting flies in the rafters of your
own houses! Apply yourselves
therefore to the means of wresting
this secret from it, for you can learn
both of this and other lands more
than by your explorations.’

“They laughed as I expected they
would,” he concluded bitterly.

s he finished, we were passing in¬
to Waltham and we began locat¬
ing our luggage, for we had only a
few more miles to travel. Then as
the train neared Boston, he resumed
at the original cause of our discus¬
sion upon the word “hate” of uncer¬
tain usage.

“So while you feel repulsion,’’ he
began, “and a sickened disgust at the
sight of a spider, it is because
the hereditary, subconscious memory
knows that these creatures were once
your lords in another existence and it
commands you to obliterate this
loathsome, alien life from another
age. When you crushed that bam
spider under your foot, you uncon¬
sciously took revenge for uncounted
eras of oppression, that has made such
a mark on the human brain that for¬
ever and ever most men will sicken
at the sight of a spider.

“You are repelled without under¬
standing the reason for your dislike,
but I—I hate them, for I know what
they are—a fact which no other man
alive is certain of.

“All spiders that I come in con¬
tact with now, are attracted to me.
I enter a room, for instance: there is

not the sign of a web about, my
hostess would swear that the house is
spotless, but if there is a spider it
feels my presence somehow, and be¬
fore I leave, I may find one perched
upon my shoe, or near me, steadily
gazing with its beady black eyes.

“I hate them, but I have not the
fear, which you mistakenly call ha¬
tred. I am going to search for
Carewe and we will search for that
polar country where the brass-hued
men lived, and may even find a
frozen or fossil spider that will prove
that I did not lie to my fellow scien¬
tists. But until that day, I tell my
story to no more scoffers, nor should
I have told you if I had not wished
to see how a layman received the the¬
ory that all my contemporaries have
rejected.

“What, Boston so soon?” he ejacu¬
lated as we pulled into the North Sta¬
tion. ‘ * I hope I have not bored you. ”

“Indeed, you have not, Mr. Pen-
treat,” I answered, with a smile. “I
wish you good fortune in your
search.” And I extended my hand.

“Thank you, I shall need it,” he
said gruffly, and wringing my hand,
he stepped into the crowd and I saw
my last of the man with the beady
eyes.

I shall not include this in my novel,
nor shall I change his version of
affairs. It is an amazing theory at
least, and if it were proved, it would
cause havoc to cherished opinions,
but if he goes to find his lost city in
the North, he goes alone—for I read
that Sir Adlington Carewe has dis¬
appeared into the jungles of Africa’s
West Coast, and as his experiments
dealt with great apes and lunatics, I
do not think he will be back.

Well, you have read the story. I
give you fair warning that I don’t
believe it myself . His eyes were just
a wee bit too bright!

T HROUGHOUT the great pal¬
ace of Tey Bee Yong, governor
of a vast province in the in¬
terior of China, the atmosphere was
heavy with tense expectancy, preg¬
nant with a sense of troubled fear.

Within the palace itself, under the
eyes of a stem, expressionless, tooth¬
less majordomo, the indoor servants
quailed, answering by some subtle in¬
stinct his unspoken commands, mov¬
ing about with that silent stealth,
the combination of their nature and
their fear.

In the outer courtyards the most
menial of the servants—little better
than slaves and less cared for and
tended than pigs and fowls—scarce
dared to breathe and only dared to
express their dull, untutored thoughts
in whispers.

Prom every window of the palace,

which stood upon one of twin hills,
myriad fantastic lamps gave forth
their lights, winking like colored
stars upon the houses that huddled in
the plain beneath. Prom the crest of
the sister hill on which was built the
great Temple of Parenthood, a soli¬
tary, mighty light gleamed heaven¬
ward. It came from the huge lan¬
tern that burned day and night be¬
fore the great carved ivory and gold¬
en altar, dedicated to the brooding
spirit who ruled the destinies of child¬
birth.

The accomplished days were num¬
bered. Hours, perhaps only min¬
utes, now stood between the supreme
moment, when the hopes of a people
and the burning desires of Tey Bee
Yong would be realized to the utter¬
most, or despair and cruel anger once
again stalked the land. For the wife

648

WEIRD TALES

of Tey Bee Tong was in the pangs of
childbirth.

Tey Bee Yong, the omnipotent, gov¬
ernor of the mightiest and largest
province' in China, potentate over
the lives and destinies of ten million
people, possessor of a hundred wives
and twice as many concubines, was
still without a son.

This night-?

From the palace to the temple a
steady stream of servants flowed,
laden with offerings from the deep
and those strange lands across the sea
that basked in perpetual sunshine
and torrential rains. Sharks’ fins
and birds’ nests, cuttlefish and sea-
slugs; the scented woods from vast
and almost untrodden jungles, gave
off their aromatic perfumes from a
thousand joss-sticks that burned be¬
fore and upon the ivory and golden
altar. Sucking-pig and fowl and
sweets, decked with fantastic frills
and colored paints, were laid in great
profusion before the weird effigy of
the spirit-god, upon whose extended
arms was placed the image of a
naked man-child, carved from a solid
block of age-old amber.

The temple courts were filled with
priests whose shaven heads, bowed in
almost ceaseless supplication, glis¬
tened like ivory balls in the glare of
the great lantern. Naked were they
all save for their baggy trousers;
against the dull ivory of their skin
their long, black, oiled pigtails
gleamed like dark weals of wo—the
stripes of a burdened people, symbols
of an age-long superstition.

In the squalid houses on the plain,
smoke from the open fires all but ob¬
scured the fitful light of flickering
torch and candle. Round the fires
huddled the almost soulless inmates,
hungrily filling their half-starved
bellies with a meager fare of sweet
potatoes—for of rice there was none,
since for the fifth year in succession
the crop had failed. Even to them
far removed, yet under the shadow

of the palace, the air of tense expec¬
tancy and troubled fear had spread.
One topic and one only passed their
thin pinched lips. They spoke in the
cracked, weak voice begotten of pov¬
erty and endless utter dejection.

Before the cheap painted wooden
pikongs in each house the joss-sticks
burned, adding their quota to the
smoky, stuffy atmosphere; carved
sweet potatoes, representing pigs and
fowls, and dyed vermilion, blue and
green, rested upon trays before the
pictured image of the god.

“Oh, that a man-child would be
born this night! ’ ’ Such was the bur¬
den of the people’s prayers. For with
his birth the curse of famine would
depart and plenty once again spread
over the land. This was the super¬
stition, the edict of the priests of the
great temple on the hill. The blight
of famine would continue and spread,
year upon year—unless an heir was
granted to the land to carry on the
rule of Tey Bee Yong, the heaven-
bom lord, beloved of Confucius.

“Oh, that a man-child would be
born this night!” As a whispering
wind, as the swell of waters, as the
distant tramp of feet, as a living,
breathing, moving spirit the cry,
though almost silent and nearly inar¬
ticulate, seemed to permeate the air
—the cry of despair that yet ex¬
pressed hope.

I n a room hung with gold and black
silken draperies, upon a multitude
of cushions reclined Tey Bee Yong,
outwardly impassive and calm. By
his side was his opium pipe, which he
raised to his lips, as frequently he
filled its blackened bowl with taper¬
ing, nervous fingers, the long nails of
which glistened in the lamplight like
the talons of a bird of prey. His al¬
mond eyes were narrowed to the mer¬
est slits, his forehead was creased into
thin, graven lines. Over his lower
lip the two front teeth, large, yellow,
and discolored, fell like two slabs of

THE CREATURE OF MAN

G49

ancient ivory. His thin lips were
bloodless, his ears abnormally large.

Thus he waited—waited like the
very meanest of his people for the
coming of the child that meant so
much. But his anxiety was only for
his pride, not for the hungry popu¬
lace.

Outside, the sound of feet coming
along a corridor reached his ears.
Just for a moment his impassiveness
gave way and he raised himself upon
his cushions. Then as the steps
passed by he sank back, his fingers
hungrily groping for his pipe. He
raised it to his mouth, unfilled, then
put it down and struck upon a gong
that stood by his side.

The door opened in due course
and the majordomo stood bowing be¬
fore him.

“Chow Lim,” the words were soul¬
less, expressionless, “bring me a

bowl of bird’s nest soup and-”

Tey Bee Yong hesitated. In the si¬
lence Chow Lim waited. “And-”

Again Tey Bee Yong paused.
Though the world rocked, though his
wife might die—still he could not,
would not, show the tension that was
his. Immemorial custom barred the
way.

Still Chow Lim waited, his body
bent in deep obeisance, his hands
crossed over his breast.

A lantern by an open window, lit
by twenty candles, flickered, guttered
and went out. A streak of darkness
stretched across the room and in-its
passage rested on Tey Bee Yong’s
face.

“And-

A moaning cry of pain came steal¬
ing through the window from the
courtyard below, followed by an in¬
fant wail.

With blazing eyes and outstretched
finger pointing to the window, Tey
Bee Yong spoke.

“Co! And cast her in the well of
eels who thus has dared to break my
rest, and throw her spawn into the

river that its blighted spirit may not
dwell in nearness to my house. Go! ”

Chow Lim bowed lower and de¬
parted.

Through a maze of passages he
walked with rapid, silent footsteps,
that yet seemed weighted with the
low fatalism of the East.

From out a small door in the pal¬
ace he emerged, and guided by un¬
usual sounds, crossed the courtyard
and entered one of several squalid
huts.

Inside was confusion and distress.
Upon dirty matting on the floor a
woman lay, with closed eyes and
faintly moving breast. She was so
thin and worn it seemed impossible
that she could have given the breath
of life to another than herself. In
the arms of a woman near by„ a new¬
born babe, a man-child, was nestling.
Over the smoking fire its father
stirred some black, insipid gruel
made from yams and sweet potatoes.
Two dogs, in a corner, were fighting
over the peelings.

Just for an instant Chow Lim stood
still as the squalor of the scene struck
even his unimpassioned senses. Just
for a second he wondered whether the
woman was not dead—so faint her
breathing, so still she lay. Just for
an instant-

The child’s wail* rose above the
snarling of the dogs. Chow Lim
moved forward. Slowly, inevitably
he drew near. Only three paces sep¬
arated him from her who held the
child. The mother opened her
eyes in supplication—some instinet
warned her of approaching harm—
her lips moved, but speech was be¬
yond her power. Over the fire the
father crouched lower; his stirring
ceased. With a moan he rolled to the
ground; his body could endure no
more, the blackness of a swoon and
hunger enveloped him.

Close to the woman Chow Lim ap¬
proached, his arms extended, his eyes
and mien eloquent of command.

650

WEIRD TALES

Over the tiny body his fingers crept.
Then-

From the palace arose a long, de¬
spairing wail that stole out of the
building, through the courtyard,
down to the huddled houses on the
plain. The great light streaming
heavenward from the temple changed
from its golden to a blood-red hue.
The priests, on their knees before the
altar, chanted a dirge of misery and

Chow Lim stood still, hesitating.
Then above the wail from the palace,
louder than the temple dirge came the
cry of many voices, a cry of fear.
• ‘ The child is bom, the child is born!
But alas! it is no man-child, we must
starve another year!”

In his room Tey Bee Yong waited
for the confirmation of the cry which
crept through the walls and reached
his ears. Broken in two his opium
pipe lay on the ground at his feet.
Clenched were his hands till the
knuckles shone like polished bone in
the flickering light. Into his lower
lip his ivory, slablike teeth were bit¬
ing till blood fell drip by drip.

Not many rooms away, his wife lay
dying, unheeded and alone, bereft of
her serving women and midwives,
who with the callousness of their race
and smitten with the prevailing dread
had left her in her very hour of need.
At her cold breast a tiny form was
vainly pressing. Into the frail weak
arms it wriggled and there lay still,
silent save for its puny whimper.
Faint as an autumn ray of sunshine a
smile flickered over the mother’s
face; then light as a spring shower,
her tears fell. Slowly her lips moved
as she whispered with her dying
breath:

daughter, thou art not wanted,

■at China, this land of much wo,

Death now should claim

It were far better th<
thee,

Than^thou shouldst live the world’s griefs to
“Dear little daughter, accursed for thy woman-

■e of man and his-

The whisper ceased. The joss-
sticks smoldered, then died out. The
lamps flickered with uncertain light.

I n the hut in the courtyard Chow
Lim’s fingers fastened on the tiny
body, and as they did so he formed a
great resolve. Gently he took posses¬
sion of the child. Then with a ghost
of a smile at the weeping mother he
passed out. Back through the maze
of passages he traveled up to the
room where the dead woman lay.
Silently, almost secretly, he entered.
With the ensuing draft from the
opening door the lamps went out.
Darkness and a child’s whimper.

Quickly he crossed to Tey Bee
Yong’s wife, and in her arms placed
the man-child. Quickly he seized the
baby daughter, and placed his hand
over its mouth, then in the darkness
re-crossed the floor. His footsteps
hurried out in the passage with an
unaccustomed haste. Once again he
reached the courtyard, entered the
hut and put down his burden. He
spoke no word, but with a gesture,
unmistakable in its authority, com¬
manded complete silence. Then he
departed.

Slowly he retraced his steps, won¬
dering as he walked what strange
freak of fancy, what curious twist of
psychology, had been the cause of his
unprecedented action.

Just for a moment fear seized him,
fear at his temerity in pitting his
strength against the god, fear at his
audacity in so attempting to deceive
Tey Bee Yong. As he reached the
door where the dead woman lay, he
trembled from head to foot and a cold
sweat broke out over him. He had
dared the gods, defied their decree!
He was deliberately about to lie to
Tey Bee Yong, the omnipotent! Ir¬
resolute he stood, hesitating to enter.

Why had he done this thing?
Why? To his unspoken thoughts no
answer came, but before his eyes ap¬
peared the picture of his own erst-

THE CREATURE OF MAN

651

while wife, whose golden lilies* were
far-famed, whose curved vermilion
lips his own had so often kissed,
whose head of shiny well-oiled hair
had lain upon his breast, whose
cheeks so lightly brushed with scent¬
ed pearl-dust had nestled near his
own, lying dead and dishonored,
killed by the passion and cruelty of
his master, Tey Bee Yong.

The beating of a gong broke in
upon his troubled thoughts. The im¬
perious sound awakened in him the
necessity for action; gave him the
courage to play his part. Quickly he
entered the room, picked up the child,
then, calm and collected, impassive as
of old, hastened to obey the summons.

“My lord,” the words were laden
with respect.

From the contemplation of his
§ opium pipe Tey Bee Yong looked up
to find Chow Lim bowing before him,
and in his arms a child.

“Cast that most accursed spawn,
that female toad into the river. And
she who gave it birth, accursed and
hated by the gods, drive forth from
out my gates with ignominy.. Burn
on her forehead the brand of shame,
for she sold herself for food and rai¬
ment, lived for a year in wealth and
comfort, then failed to give her lord
a man-child. Go!”

“My lord.” Deeply Chow Lim
made his obeisance, then stood erect.
Thus for a brief moment he faced Tey
Bee Yong, then the child’s whimper
broke the silence.

“Son of an evil mother!” cried
Tey Bee Yong as he raised himself
from his cushions. “Dost dare to
pause upon my command? Go, ere
my wrath burst bounds. Go! ”

“My lord, most honorable mas¬
ter, ’ ’ began Chow Lim, and his voice,
though humble, held some quality of
compulsion. “Thy servant for many
years craves thy pardon for his dis¬
obedience, yet is he emboldened thus
to dare thy wrath, for those whose

* bound-up feet.

voices reached thine ears a little
while ago, did lie. They spoke of
what they knew not but only of their
fears. See, lord, what I thy humble
slave and majordomo bring to thee.
For this, and this alone, dare I delay
in execution of thine honor’s will.”

As he paused for breath, Chow Lim
stretched out his arms, showing the
child to Tey Bee Yong.

“Oh, heaven-bom master, gracious
lord, behold the great god of the
mighty temple has answered thy
prayer. See, into thy arms I place
the longed-for man-child.”

A slow silence crept over the room
as Tey Bee Yong with the child in
his arms rocked slowly on his feet. A
whimper broke the silence. It star¬
tled Tey Bee Yong. Into the arms
of Chow Lim he thrust the child, then
with a sudden thought asked:

“And she who bore this child, this
son of mine, this infant of the god
most blessed, what of her? Give to
her all attention, double the number
of her serving women, for I will
raise her to my side and take her to
my own most intimate habitation.
Hasten, Chow Lim, and do my bid¬
ding ; prepare her for my visit, for I
would speak with her. Go! And for
thyself there shall also be rewards.”

Chow Lim bowed low.

“My lord, though the god has
given thee a son, in the giving hath
he claimed the mother, for Moi Kam
Moi, thine honor’s latest and best-
beloved wife, is dead. Yet shall the
child live and so delight thine eyes.
Thus shall he perpetuate the heaven-
born ’s fame and so give plenty to this
stricken land.”

He bowed again and silently de¬
parted. For fully a minute Tey Bee
Yong stood still, motionless as an
ivory image. Then he struck the
gong. Chow Lim himself answered
the call.

“Bring me another pipe,” Tey Bee
Yong’s voice was calm and expres¬
sionless, “for this of evil workman-

652

WEIRD TALES

ship is broken in two. And send Kiu
San Kiu to me. My eyes would feast
upon her sinuous form, my mouth
taste her vermilion lips, my arms
feel her soft body in their sweet em¬
brace. Go!”

Far into the night Chow Lim was
busy making arrangements for the
care and tending and upbringing of
the changeling child.

Over the land the news was spread¬
ing. In the months that followed,
from East to West and North to
South the fields were heavy and gold¬
en with the thick ears of ripening
grain.

2

S eventeen years had passed since
the birth of Tey Bee Yong’s child
—years of plenty for the populace.
Never a breath of suspicion blew
upon Chow Lim; not for an instant
did Tey Bee Yong suspect; never a
word was spoken by the inmates of
the hovel..

Only in the palace and its precincts
there grew up two children, who by
some freak or fantasy of the god
were in the end most strangely drawn
together.

Yong Bee Tey—for so was the
man-child named—was good to look
upon. Tall and straight of limb, with
open eyes and smiling countenance,
he held his father’s pride and such
affection as was his. In all things
was he indulged save one—his future
marriage. On this one point his fa¬
ther was the stern, unbending auto¬
crat. For there was one, the pale-
faced limping daughter of a far-off
governor, whose province adjoined
that of Tey Bee Yong, with whom he
intended his son should wed; that
with the union his ambition for ag¬
grandizement might be fed and he re¬
deem his pledge. For, as was the
custom of the land, tb,e children in in¬
fancy had been affianced by their par¬
ents ’ bond.

Across the sky dark clouds were

seudding. Faster they came and
thicker they grew, till in the west
they banked one upon the other, then
spread across the star-flecked sky.
Out of the east a wind came roaring,
then ceased with a startling sudden¬
ness. The clouds pressed lower and
then broke, dragging the earth with'
torrential rain. Peal upon peal of
mighty thunder; flash upon flash the
lightning played.

But Tey Bee Yong’s son, returning
home from the hunt, heeded not the
storm, for just before reaching the
outer walls of the palace he would
pass a tiny, disused gardener’s hut.
There he would find his heart’s de¬
sire, his pearl beyond all price, his
Ming Po Ming, whose peach-bloom
cheeks were innocent of pearl-dust,
whose lips pouted a natural redness
richer than vermilion paint, whose
sleek-black hair, untouched with oil,
outvied that of other maidens, whose
golden lilies were beyond compare.

As he approached he sang for the
very lightness of his heart, while his
pulse beat quicker at the thought of
holding her soft form in his embrace.
Just as he turned a bend in the path
a vivid sheet of lightning lit up earth
and sky. In its glare he beheld the
hut and Ming Po Ming framed in its
doorway.

For a moment his heart stood still
and his blood seemed turned to water
as he saw her flinch before the sud¬
den glare. Then with a run and a
bound he reached the hut, and she
was in his arms.-

‘ ‘ Ming Po, Ming Po, sweet flower
of my heart,” he murmured, “thou
must not stand so at the door, when
such a storm is raging; what should I
do, sweet blossom, if the lightning
struck thee down?”

For answer she nestled closer in
his arms, then shyly whispered:
“Ah! but I could not wait to feast
my eyes upon my best beloved. If he
be in the storm, shall not Ming Po
then watch for his return? What is

THE CREATURE OF MAN

653

a little rain, a little thunder and a
little glare compared to her great
love ?' ’

“Ming Po, beloved!” And once
again his lips met hers and all the
world was lost to them. Thus did
they stand, oblivious of the storm
without, murmuring such words as
only lovers know.

But in a world of stern reality
such moments, though they hold an
age, must pass, nor is their power su¬
preme enough to triumph over fear
and dread, those deep-born instincts
of the serf and poor. And so-.

There came a clap of thunder,
louder than the rest, that startled
Ming Po and by its seeming unexpec¬
tedness awoke her quiescent fears.
Slowly she disentangled herself from
Yong Bee’s embrace; then with a
pensive gesture smoothed out the
wrinkles of her coat and trousers, the
while he watched, wondering yet con¬
scious of some forceful intrusion.

Over the room a silence crept as
the storm with unearthly suddenness
ceased. Through cracks in the walls
and holes in the roof a chill wind
found its way. Ming Po shuddered
—was it from cold or fear?—and
slowly her tears fell.

“Ming Po!” The words were
wrung from Yong Bee. “MingPo!”
and he moved toward her, but with
upraised hand she motioned him
away.

Wondering, he obeyed the gesture
and waited.

“Beloved, king of my heart, I am
afraid- You are the governor’s son;
I—I am only the daughter of his
meanest servant. ’ ’

“Yet the jewel of my life,” Yong
Bee could not restrain the words, nor
the fervent love and longing in their
tone.

Through her tears Ming Po smiled
a silent answer and then continued:
“I am afraid and sore distressed.
Only today I heard Chow Lim relate
how that thy father had decreed that

thy marriage must take place before
the waning of two moons. If so, if

Tears choked her voice. Her sor¬
row broke down Yong Bee’s good in¬
tents and once again he found his
arms around her, and hot passionate
words of love fell from his lips.

“Flower of my heart, most price¬
less jewel in all the world, thou must
not weep so. Dry thy poor tears; nor
ever think that I can cease to love
thee, nor that my father’s will can
force me to a marriage with that
limping, pale-faced daughter from
the North.”

“But of Chow Lim I am afraid.”

“Chow Lim! My best beloved
fearful of a servant? Nay, nay,
whence comes thy fear?”

“I do not know—I can not say,
and yet—he seems to fill me with a
fear. It is as if he served a purpose
of his own; as if behind his face of
masklike blankness there lay a knowl¬
edge all his own. Always I feel his
eyes upon me. He seems to see what
others do not notice. His thin lips
droop with a cruel twisted smile
whenever he meets me., Only today
he stopped me as I came to meet thee;
pinched my arm and tweaked my
chin, then with a dart his fingers
reached my neck. He felt the amber
necklace thou didst give me, pulled it
from my neck and then—was gone. ’ ’

The last two words, faint as a
whisper, just reached Yong Bee.
Just for a moment Ming Po’s glance,
in which fear and love were strug¬
gling for the mastery, met his gaze,
then over her shining almond eyes
the heavy lids fell and unconscious
she lay in his arms.

Slowly the fear that was hers stole
into his brain; slowly he realized the
danger that confronted them. Their
secret was out! Chow Lim held them
in the hollow of his hand; his power
was second only to his father’s.
Some even said he ruled the land, for
since the day of Yong Bee’s birth,

654

WEIRD TALES

his honor and power had steadily
grown in silent, subtle ways, till he
alone held the ear of Tey Bee Yong
who, sodden with opium and degen¬
erate with excessive lusts, leant more
and more upon his strength.

Into. the pale face of Ming Po,
Yong Bee looked lovingly. No paint
nor pearl-dust marred her beauty.
Light as thistledown she lay in his
arms; the scarlet of her ‘golden lil¬
ies’ the only touch of color in her
clothes. And as he looked he mar¬
veled at her features. There was no
beauty in the land like hers. Whence
came such perfectness? How was
such loveliness born of menial par¬
entage? Surely the god of childbirth
moved in strange and subtle ways.

‘ 1 Chow Lim! ” In her swoon Ming
Po was muttering, murmuring the
words of her great fear.

What was the knowledge that he
held locked in the fastness of his
mind? What was the purpose that
he served—the purpose all his own?
Yong Bee wondered, for he did not
know the story of Chow Lim’s wife.

Then once again the thunder
rolled and the vivid lightning forked
the sky. Once again the rain poured
down in unaccustomed fury. The
frail shelter of the disused hut proved
but little protection from the storm.
Yet they must wait, for between them
and the palace stretched a river, now
running in spate, the roar of whose
waters almost equaled that of the
th under.

Gradually Ming Po recovered from
her swoon, and though cold and still
fearful, yet found some warmth and
comfort in Yong Bee’s arms.

T n the great palace on the hill Chow
A Lim was waiting. The hour of his
destiny was approaching; his mind
seemed akin to the fury of the storm.
Each night during seventeen years
his prayer as he lit the pikongs had
been the same. Each night ere
troubled sleep had touched his eyes

his vision had never changed—the
vision of his wife cold in death and
dishonor and shame. And now-

The beating of a gong broke in
upon his revery. Silently, impassive¬
ly, as of old he obeyed the summons
and stood bowing low before Tey Bee
Yong.

“Chow Lim.” Tey Bee’s voice
had lost its strength and vigor. In
the large room it sounded cracked
and husky. Between words its
owner’s breath wheezed in gusty
puffs. One ivory slablike tooth was
missing from the now loosely hanging
lower lip. The almond eyes were al¬
most lost in heavy rolls of fat that
encased the deep caverns of their
sunken sockets. The creases on his
forehead were graven deeper than of
old. Only the long fingernails glis¬
tened in the lamplight as of yore.

“Chow Lim.”

“My lord,” Chow Lim was almost
servile in his complete obeisance.

“Where is my son?”

“Thy honor’s son?”

“Yea, my son. Fully two hours
have I, Tey Bee Yong, the blessed of
Confucius, governor omnipotent, been
waiting thus, and yet he does not
come. I whose commands have never
yet been broken, whose slightest wish
is weighted with the fear of death, I,
lord of the lives of all my subjects, I
have waited! Only my love has kept
my wrath from bursting. Tell me,
Chow Lim, where is my son? Tell
me, I say, or shall thy home be
blasted?”

Through the great room the
cracked voice echoed, for it held an
intensity of emotion, of love and an¬
ger and wounded pride, that would
not be denied. Just for a moment
before that fateful figure of omnipo¬
tence Chow Lim wavered in his re¬
solve ; just for a moment his courage
failed. Then once again the vision
came before his eyes', and slowly he
spoke each word with stedfast calm.

THE CREATURE OP MAN

655

“My lord, the offspring of my hon¬
ored master, is—how should I know,
my lord? I do not spy upon the
movements of thy honor’s honored
child. It is not meet that I—and

“Spawn of a filthy mother, whose
shameful wife I east from out this,
land, beware! If thou knowest
aught, then speak; if not then close
thy mouth, else will I send thee back
whenee thou earnest. ’ ’

Tey Bee’s wrath had burst its
bounds. In his unbridled rage he
thus taunted Chow Lim with those
sad happenings of the bygone years.
Careless of all and cruel in the belief
of his omnipotence he thus set fuel to
the fire of Chow Lim’s yet wavering
thoughts. Yet not an eyelid quiv¬
ered, not a muscle twitched to betray
the storm of hate within his heart as
Chow Lim, in answer, bowed low his
head, extending outward both his
palms in token of servitude and sub¬
mission.

“Oh, heaven-bom prinee, beloved
of Confucius, thy servant hears. Thy
words, thy slightest wish, as ever, are
his commands. Hear me, oh lord,
for I would speak the truth. Yet if
my words should anger thee, I crave
thee withhold thy wrath from me, thy
humble slave; remember, oh honored
master, the years of my untiring
service.”

Chow Lim ceased and silence filled
the room. It was as if these two, the
governor and the servant, fought a
duel; and in the end the servant won,
for with a heavy sigh Tey Bee sank
back among the cushions from which
he had risen and with a weary gesture
of his hand signified consent.

“My lord,” Chow Lim began,
“how better can thy servant break
the news to thee than by a question?
Whom does the dove seek among the
brandies of the trees when spring is
in the air ? The mighty dragon, sym¬
bol of thine honored race,' prowling
in unpeopled lands when the new

buds are blossoming upon the trees,
whom does he seek, oh master? The
snake, shed of his year-old skin and
conscious of his-”

“Enough!” The cry was wrong
from Tey Bee Yong, who with blazing
eyes and quivering lips sat upright
among his cushions. “Enough!
Thou meanest-?”

“That youth will serve its instinct
and find a mate of its own choosing.
My lord, ’tis ever so. Thou mayest
command; thy will may be enforced;
yet in the heart of youth there lies
a depth unplumbed. And so I
fear-”

Skilfully now in turn, Chow Lim
added fuel to the fire of his master’s
wrath and with consummate clever¬
ness played on his curiosity.

He paused and then repeated,
“And so I fear that thine honor’s
child may prove indeed his likeness
to his sire and so possess a will im¬
movable. Love is the life of youth.
’Tis meat and drink to those that are
ahungered and athirst. It knows no
stooping, counts not its condescen¬
sion ; heeds but the lips and eyes, nor
thinks of birth or rank, and I am
afraid-”

“Of what? What dost thou fear?
What wouldst convey with thy insin¬
uations? ’ ’

Once again Chow Lim extended his
arms with the palms of his hands up¬
permost ere he continued.

“That the insidious disease ealled
love, which saps the strength of those
who do contract it, which enters their
blood and breeds a enrious madness
that warps their views and so cor¬
rupts their Wills that they acquire a
stubbornness beyond all reason, so
that they do forget the tenets of their
land and faith and the true teaching
of the great Confucius that youth
should reverence age and bow before
its will, may seize thy honor’s off¬
spring in its grasp and so bring des¬
olation on this land.”

656

WEIRD TALES

“Thou liest.” The words were a
very snarl, a blend of pain and
wrath. “Thou liest. No child of
mine, while I yet live, shall mate save
under my commands, nor wed the one
save whom I choose., And I have
chosen. In the North is one affianced
from birth. Love! I do not know
its meaning. Figure and form that
do delight the eyes, a body that can
bear a son—such do I ask and such
will I command. Such can I find
among the great ones of the land.
There is no will in all the land save
mine.” Tey Bee, exhausted by the
vehemence of his spirit, fell back
among his cushions, glaring at Chow
Lim with blazing eyes.

“And yet-” Reluctance and

grief and fear were in the pause, but
Tey Bee knew not that they were sim¬
ulated.

The storm had passed. Through
the window gleamed the moon. In
the hut by the river it lighted on
Ming Po’s face. It gave to Chow
Lim the inspiration of his life.

“My lord, behold the moon. Under
its silvery light, beneath the magic of
its spell, die love disease grows
strongest, for lovers best care to meet
when the great orb is highest in the
sky. ’Tis then the madness grips
them and lips meet lips. ’Tis then
that duty, honor, filial piety are shed
and only naked, longing souls remain.
Near to the river whose roaring wa¬
ters can now be heard, yet which will
soon subside, there stands a hut, dis¬
used and old. There, of a night, thy
servant, lord, hath seen two lovers
meet. Each month when the moon
was full they met. Thy slave paid
them no heed—thy pigs and fowls
find mates—until-”

Chow Lim paused once again to
watch the tortured face of Tey Bee
Yong. In very truth the hour was
come. Then he continued with re¬
lentless calm.

“Until this night thy servant rec¬
ognized a voice that drove the blood

from out his veins—the voice of thine
honor’s child.”

From nerveless fingers Tey Bee’s
opium pipe fell to the ground to
break in two—just as his pipe had
broken of yore. The great head
nodded from side to side. The loos¬
ened, ivory, slablike tooth worked up
and down the overhanging lower lip.
The long-nailed fingers clawed his
silken coat.

Slowly, with infinite effort, he
opened his lips, but no sound came
forth. Yet once again he tried.
Faintly the whisper reached Chow
Lim: “Water.”

The latter crossed the room, filled
a bowl, which he brought to his mas¬
ter. Deeply Tey Bee drank, then
closed his eyes and waited. The
years of excess had taken their toll;
opium and lust now claimed their
sway. Gone was omnipotence, might
and power; only the husk of a man
remained, to see life’s dream fading.

“My lord,” Chow Lim was speak¬
ing and his voice held now a note of
pleading. “Yet trust thy servant,
who serves but thee. All is not lost if
I do act tonight, for I have found an
antidote to this disease of love.
Hark! even now the waters of the
river are abating. Give me but leave
to cross the river, reach the hut and
take possession of those love-sick two.
For the sake of thy great name and
fame, oh honored master, for the love
and gratitude I bear thy house, grant
me this leave. Give me permission
and unfettered power and I will cure
the ill, restore thy child to thee and
wreak such vengeance on that be¬
sotted offspring of a foul and leprous
birth as shall establish for all time
the fame of thy omnipotence.”

Chow Lim ceased and for a minute,
which seemed laden with ages, Tey
Bee remained motionless, heedless of
his words. Then with shaking fore¬
finger, pointing to the door he whis¬
pered :

THE CREATURE OF MAN

657

“As thou hast promised, so
achieve. Let me be told the hour of
vengeance that I may whet my jaded
senses. Go.”

O ver the east, dawn threw her first
faint vaporous streamers. In
the hut by the river, whose waters
now ran calmly, Ming Po stirred rest¬
lessly in Yong Bee’s arms, for sleep
had overtaken them in the night.
Her eyes opened and gazed upon his
face. Her lips just pressed against
his forehead. Over his hair her fin¬
gers strayed. For those few moments
forgotten was her fear; she was con¬
tent to be there in his arms and rest.
Her lips, pouting and cool, were
nearing his, when—a creaking noise
just reached her ear. Quickly she
turned, yet more quickly still a hand
was placed upon her mouth and
roughly she was pulled away. A
thud, and Yong Bee was stretched
unconscious on the floor. Over her
head a darkness fell and once again
she swooned.

3

A flaming ball of brass, the sun
•rode high in a cloudless sky. Be¬
fore the great ivory and golden altar
the joss-sticks burnt in great profu¬
sion and the great lamp, though
dimmed by the midday sun, gave
forth its mighty light.

The extended arms of the huge
effigy of the spirit-god were empty,
for the image of the naked man-
child carved of age-old amber had
been removed, since the day of Yong
Bee Tey’s birth.

The temple was deserted of its
priests, for the hour was that of the
midday meaL Over the sacred edi¬
fice a brooding spirit spread.

From the palace on the sister hill
came the beating of a gong in twelve
measured beats. Then silence. Then
—through the outer courts came the
unsteady, shuffling footsteps of men

who bore a heavy burden. Closer
and closer they came, entered the
central court, then stopped before
the altar.

Over the knees of the spirit-god one
climbed, then stood up. His fingers
found the navel, which he pressed. A
hidden door in the great abdomen
opened, giving to view a cavern in
which two mighty springs reposed in
the bowels of the god.

Chow Lim—for he it was who,
though holding not the priestly rank,
yet dared to so approach the god—
signed to the waiting men beneath to
pass him up their burden. Into the
bowels of relentless fate he thrust a
living body; then closed the door, de¬
scended from the graven knees and
with his four companions departed.

O ver the land a dusk was creeping.

It seemed to meet and mingle
with a darkling haze that rose from
the water-logged rice-fields, to fill the
sea and sky with weird fantastic
shapes and wreaths that went eddying
and circling heavenward till the
bright light of the newly risen moon
was dulled to opaqueness.

By twos and threes the inmates of
the huddled houses on the plain
wended their way toward the great
temple, for the edict had gone forth
that they should gather to witness the
punishment of one who had presumed
to foul and besmirch the fame and
dignity of the great house of Tey
Bee Yong, governor omnipotent of
China’s largest provinde.

From the palace to the temple a
steady stream of servants flowed. In
their hearts was fear, in their minds
a morbid curiosity.

Down the hill, across the narrow
valley, up the temple path a golden
litter bore the great Tey Bee Yong.
Carefully the bearers bore it, gently
they placed it in an almost hallowed
spot close to the ivory and golden
altar.

658

WEIRD TALES

To the right and left the priests
and temple servants stood with bowed
shaven heads and shining pigtails.

The air was heavy with smoke
from the myriad joss-sticks. The
fierce light from the great lantern
rose ever heavenward.

From behind the altar came the
sound of chanting—a doleful wail of
plaintive note. Its volume increased
as all in the temple took up the re¬
frain. Then suddenly it ceased.

In the ensuing silence the high
priest came before the altar. On
either side four golden steps were
placed. Those on the left he slowly
climbed, then stepped upon the knees
of the mighty idol.

Through the great concourse a
shudder ran, and as a single sob their
gasp of terror went echoing along the
roof. For now they knew beyond
mistake the dreadful scene that they
must witness.

Silence! Silence heavy and heart¬
rending.

From afar there came faintly, then
slowly louder, the sound of shuffling
footsteps. Up the full length of the
great court, right through the packed
and trembling onlookers Chow Lim
led a figure muffled from head to foot,
whose groping, stumbling footsteps
would in any other circumstances
have been ridiculous. Up to the base
of the ivory and golden altar he led
that muffled, silent figure and then
stopped.

From the knees of the god the high
priest spoke.

“0 people and servants of the most
high Tey Bee Yong, our lord, our
master who rules us by the .will of
heaven, a crime has been committed
against his name and house and thus
against the very Deity of our God
himself, the ever blessed Confucius.
One of low birth and menial parent¬
age, by arts and magic, by subtle use
of lips and limb and honeyed words
and drooping eyes has dared to
scheme alliance with the sacred, god-

descended house of Tey Bee Yong.
For such a crime against our lord and
master, for such impiety against the
god, for the mere thought of so pol¬
luting the pure fount of birth, death
is the only penalty.”

He paused and once again a shud¬
der ran through the congregation.
Then the priests took up the cry,
‘‘Death to the foul polluter; death in
the bowels and arms of the god!”
The cry grew louder as from the
throats of those present it soared up¬
ward. “Death to the foul polluter;
death in the bowels and arms of the
god!”

Then as the high priest raised his
hand the cry subsided and all was
still.

The raised hand slowly descended,
passed down the figure of the god,
found and rested on the navel,
pressed it—and up from the cavern
the bound figure of a man was flung,
bleeding and tom, to fall and rest
upon the outstretched arms.

From the veiled figure by Chow
Lim, there burst a piercing shriek:
“ Yong Bee, my beloved! ’ ’ From the
golden litter came a heavy groan:
“My son, my son!” as stupefied and
numb with horror Tey Bee looked on.
From the vast congregation rose a
cry of fear. Only the high priest and
Chow Lim remained immovable.

Slowly those outstretched arms
curved upward and inward, raising
the bound body toward the idol’s
breast; tighter the grip on the poor
bound flesh. From the doomed
wretch a cry was wrung: “Ming Po,
my beloved!” Then with a shudder
he hung limp and still.

Upward and inward those arms
pressed—till the head fell limp on the
shoulders, pressed till the legs dan¬
gled twisted in death.

Over the watching people a silence
had fallen. Only the faint creaking
machinery in the bowels of the god
just faintly smote the air. Then—
peal upon peal of maniac laughter as

THE CREATURE OF MAN

650

the madness of Chow Lim broke
bounds and the pent-up grievance of
those years burst forth.

“Fool, fool!” he cried and pointed
to the litter where the frozen image,
Tey Bee Yong, sat dumb. “Thy day
is done, thy name as dung upon the
fields. Thou hast no son. That tor¬
tured wretch before thine eyes is not
of thee, but of thy servant’s stock,
spawn of a swineherd’s wife, whom I
did change for thine own flesh and
blood, the daughter of Moi Kam Moi.
See, her full lips have met his lips of
evil birth; her frail .form lain in his
foul embrace.”

With a single rend he tore the
draperies from Ming Po’s body and
with a bound bore her to the litter.
“Thou hast called my wife a wanton,

named me of filthy birth; behold thy
daughter and her shame, who spent a
night in the disused hut in the arms
of a swineherd’s son. Thy day is
done, thy name a byword to the peo¬
ple; fouled of thy stock, no longer
shall thy sway be owned. Cursed of
the god, this night thy end is near;
yet ere thou diest, witness how thy
wanton offspring dies, too.”

Into his arms he gathered the al¬
most fainting Ming Po to swing her
round his head—then stopped as his
gaze became fixed on Tey Bee’s face.
Slowly the frenzy left him. Into the
litter he pushed his head.

Over the great stillness his whisper
spread. “Dead! He’s dead! Tey
Bee Yong, the governor, the omnipo¬
tent, is dead.”

The Ode to Pegasus

A Dream-Tale

By MARIA MORAVSKY

E RIC could not sleep. There
were mosquitoes in his room,
and they sang in low monoto¬
nous voices the praise of sleeplessness.
The pallid moon shone straight into
his eyes, and in its waning light the
boy saw the weathervane on the ga¬
rage roof spinning round and round
in the changing wind.

The weathervane represented a
horse with wings, because, before the
advent of automobiles, the garage
used to be a stable. A famous family
of horse-lovers kept their race-horses
there. It had been long ago, Eric
was told, maybe fifty years, maybe
more . . . Eric was still of the age
when fifty years and eternity are of

practically the same length. The old
weathervane silvered by the moon
looked ancient to him, as ancient as
the horse Pegasus of which he had
recently learned in school. A won¬
derful horse!

The wind grew stronger, its direc¬
tion still undefined. Eric felt sleepy
now, his head dizzier and dizzier as
the silver horse spun faster. Soon
the buzzing of the mosquitoes grew
faint, but another disturbing sound
startled him: it was the whinnying of
a horse.

Nobody kept horses on that modern
street, in the up-to-date suburb
where Eric’s foster-parents owned
their ultra-modern house. Even the

WEIRD TALES

milkman would come shattering the
early hours of the morning with the
rattling automobile truck. Eric
looked curiously down the deserted
street, milky-white in the misty dawn.
It seemed empty. Then some irresist¬
ible feeling of ill-directed curiosity
made him look upward.

The moon was so pale now that it
resembled a thin piece of melting ice.
The gray roof of the distant ex-stable
could not be discerned in the milky
mists. Only the weathervane shone
brightly, the top of its metallic wings
reflecting the unseen sunrise.

The rounds it made now seemed
wider and wider. It was as if the
horse detached itself from its tether
of steel wire. It was growing larger
and larger, it flew more and more
slowly around the roof’s peak. Eric
rubbed his eyes and jumped from the
bed. Strange things began to happen.

The great horse flew lower. It
reached Eric’s window. It alighted
on the broad roof of the veranda
above which the small dormer window
peeped at the world. Then, before
Eric could formulate the sudden and
beautiful desire, he saw it fulfilled.
He was on the silvery back of' the
great horse, between the powerful
wings beating the air with harmoni¬
ous low swish.

Rosy clouds formed an oval track
over which the great horse galloped.
The unspeakable rapture which was
Eric’s began to fade as rapidly as it
came; he heard his foster-mother’s
voice calling: “Eric, it’s 7 o’clock!
Are you up?”

She did not know how high up he
was, thought Eric., He would not
answer, for fear of disturbing her.
She might worry about this new
sport he had discovered. She was
always extremely solicitous, caring
for his safety till it hurt. No, he
would not call back from his brilliant
place in the clouds; but she might
hear the swish of the great wings and
look up, and then all the fun would

end. He must prevent that. Gently
he slapped the horse’s shining side
and whispered into its trembling ear:
“Higher! Take me higher!”

The horse whinnied so that the
buildings below trembled with awe.
Its wings shot upward with uncanny
speed. Never in his life had Erie
ridden so fast, not even on that mem¬
orable day when his foster-father
took him to the stadium and let him
fly in an airplane.

“Eric!”

He heard his mother’s voice grow¬
ing weaker yet more penetrating than
before. There was anxiety in it, and
Eric could not bear that. Through
his great exhilaration it sounded, per¬
sistent, appealing ... He looked with
a sigh toward the distant stars he had
hoped to reach, then put his mouth
against Pegasus’ ear once more: “I
must go down, to earth. ’ ’

He closed his eyes, not to see the
hateful descent. Heights often made
him dizzy, and he was afraid to fall
during the rapid downward flight.
He opened his eyes only when his feet
touched the window-sill of his room.

“npHE boy is very nervous; too
much day-dreaming. The other
day when his teacher asked him what
he would like to be when he grows up,
he answered: ‘A flyer in the sky.’ ”
Mr. Torrence smiled tolerantly at
the anxiety sounding in his wife’s
voice.

“Well, it isn’t such an impractical
dream, after all. Many level-headed
men become pilots nowadays. In
fact, one has to be v6ry level-headed
to make a success of it. I would not

object if Eric-”

“Edwin Torrence! Such a dan¬
gerous occupation! You would hard¬
ly allow him to choose it if the boy
were your own child.”

She instantly felt that the reproach
was undeserved by her husband, who
had been so fond of the boy, and
amended her words with an affection-

THE ODE TO PEGASUS

ate pat on his shoulder. She ad¬
mitted that she was too anxious
about the boy. Feminine nonsense,
all that! Yes, she would try to cure
herself of it. It would be selfish to
stand in the boy’s way should he
choose to become a pilot. Secretly she
hoped he would not.

“As to his nervousness, we must
consult a specialist,” Mr. Torrence
concluded hopefully. “It is natural
at his age. The dangerous period be¬
tween adolescence and youth, you
know. ’ ’

Mr. Torrence thought he knew all
about what he galled human mechan¬
ism.

As the years went by, several nerve
specialists went over Eric’s conscious¬
ness and subconsciousness with a fine¬
toothed comb. Nothing seemed neg¬
lected there, in the inner circle of his
soul. He apparently overcame his
habit of day-dreaming, and embraced
willingly the risky but sane career of
a pilot, which Mr. Torrence suggested
to him, thinking that was what the
boy wanted himself.

Eric no longer rode the great
white horse. Instead, he mastered
many ugly synthetic horses with dead
motionless wings which depended on
the noisy motors to lift them up to
.the sky. Once there, he seemed to re¬
gain the illusions of which the nerve
specialists had robbed him. The rosy
clouds at sunrise were almost as
beautiful and exciting as during that
first ride in the sky when he saw them
from Pegasus’ back.

Yet the airplane rides never gave
him as much thrill as that first daz¬
zling ride. Outwardly he was a care¬
ful, persevering, level-headed driver,
always minding weather forecasts,
never accepting insane bets. He
would not loop the loop or engage in
tiie neck-breaking pastime of the tail-
spin. He would test most minutely
every new plane entrusted to him,
before he ever mounted it. It was
because of these qualities that he was

chosen to take a part in the great air¬
plane race, the unseen track of which
lay between New York and San Fran¬
cisco.

His aged foster-mother was dead
by now, so her kindly fretting and
worry could not stop him from ac¬
cepting the honor of the racing. His
father, even more level-headed than
his foster-son, saw no obstacles to it.
He was. rather proud of this boy
whom he had made over, he thought,
from a highly strung dreamer into a
practical first-rate pilot. He would
be dismayed, perhaps, and his pride
would waver if he knew that, just on
the day of the race, his level-headed
foster-son was occupied with a thing
which was anything but practical.
In the midst of the last preparations
and fixings of his plane, he laid down
his grease-proof gloves, took out the
thin penknife given to him b£ his
foster-mother when he was a boy, and
for the better half of an hour
scratched something on the upper
part of the left wing of the plane.
When he finished his eyes held a dis¬
tant and dreamy look like that which
would steal into them in the days of
his earliest childhood.

I t was the last hour of the race.

The great expanse of the Pacific
widened before Eric’s eyes, tired
from incessant wind from which even
his glasses could not wholly protect
him. His face was hollow and
smeared with perspiration., His
head ached dully. It seemed to him
that he had flown for days. He was
so tired that he did not care any
longer about the winning of the race.
Although he was far ahead of all his
competitors, the thought of it gave
him no thrill. All his weary brain
craved was unconsciousness. Uncon¬
sciousness of sleep or even death.

The numerous shocks of the
changeable wind currents, the falling
into air pockets, being beaten by the
rain and sudden unexpected crop of

(>62

WEIRD TALES

liail never predicted by the weather
report, and above all these physical
trials the supreme trial of ambition
urging him on and on at top speed,
ambition imposed upon him by his
father’s pride—all this was breaking
his inner endurance. While his body
still struggled on, the real Eric was
almost unconscious of its efforts. He
was so deathly tired, it seemed that
nothing more could shock him.

But as his tired eyes glimpsed the
greenish blue expanse of the misty
ocean, with the large, queerly shaped
clouds hung low over it, and the sea¬
gulls’ wings catching the glimpses of
the unseen sunshine hidden some¬
where behind these low clouds, he ex¬
perienced a shock similar to that of
his first ride . . . Had it been his first
ride in an airplane or a ear, or—
something else? He was so tired he
could not recall it. Yet all his being
strained like a hound on a leash,
toward some great experience which
was about to be his. The great clouds
above sailed lower, .became pregnant

with some unseen presence.

Strange things began to happen.

A great white horse emerged from
the farthest cloud. It grew nearer and
nearer the rattling plane, drown¬
ing the unharmonious voice of the
querulous motor with the musical
swish of its wings.

“Pegasus!” cried Eric.

“Something is wrong with that
motor,” warned the first layer of his
consciousness.

“Pegasus!” cried the real Eric.

The great horse was now near,
within the reach of his hand. But his
hands clung to the despised synthetic
thing which he was driving. His eyes
were looking upward, while his ears
tried to detect the ominous missings
in the beats of the motor. He was
like a house divided against itself,
when he felt strange waves of power¬
ful thought coming toward him.

The luminous eyes of the great
horse were now quite near. It was
from them that the thoughts radiated.
These orbs of concentrated moonlight
flashed into his awed soul the mes¬
sage: “You have forgotten me! You
have forgotten Pegasus, for this thing
of metal and gas.”

“I never forgot you!” shouted
Eric. “Look on the outside of the
left wing! I have written an ode in
your honor. It is scratched on the
aluminum so clearly a sea-gull could
read it.”

“Then leave this machine and
mount me,” came the luring com¬
mand.

His mortally tired hands ceased to
cling to the guide-stick. Overwhelm¬
ing dizziness came over him. He
lurched forward, then leapt. Next
moment he was on the back of the
great horse heading into eternity.

'TpHE mangled thing they found
-*■ among the steaming wreck of the
winning airplane was not Eric. It
was only his body worn to death by
the tiresome realities of life.

“Tl^Y GOD! What’s that!”

IVH Graveland Stannard spoke
nervously, the tense,
strained tones betraying marked
alarm.

Prom somewhere ootside the mag¬
nificent residence of the famous ex¬
pert in plastic surgery there had
suddenly come a long, piercing,
brutelike wail, splitting the sultry
blackness of the warm June night
with startling and mournful cadence.
Weirdly, like a melancholy warning
from the spirit world, the terrifying,
unearthly cry had come to these two
erring young souls.

The girl-wife of the great surgeon
—blond, shapely and pretty, a weak
flapper whose prayerbook was a pack
of cards, whose rosary was a cigarette
ease, and whose prayer was made to
a bottle of synthetic gin—answered
tiie man’s nervous inquiry lightly as

she again pressed her warm, red lips
to those of the dark young artist, but
there was also a noticeable trace of
agitation present in her voice.

“It is only Terror, the doctor’s
great wolf,” she said, reassuringly.
“Don’t be such a coward, Stan—it’s
only Terror quarreling with some of
the animals the doctor keeps for his
nasty experiments! Oh, Stan! He is
a wonderful man—but I hate him!
I’m afraid of him, too, Stan dear—
he’s so cold and hard and cruel! ’ ’

“The doctor is a great man,”
young Stannard declared, “but I’ve
heard that in his vivisection-experi¬
ments he is absolutely without feel¬
ing!”

The doctor’s pretty young wife lay
contentedly in the young artist’s
arms. Suddenly he felt her tremble
a little.

663

664

WEIRD TALES

"Stan, sometimes I’m horribly
afraid! He—he’s terrible! Once, a
young farmer, who used to beat his
wife, had bruised his hand in doing
so, and when the doctor heard of it
he amputated every finger of the
man’s hand, one by one, without an
anesthetic, claiming the encroach¬
ment of blood-poisoning to be so rap¬
id he had not the time to use anes¬
thesia! Oh, my God! it was horri¬
ble!”

The woman again pressed her hot
lips tremblingly to those of the man.

Instantly there came again the
long, sinister, baying howl. The
woman with difficulty repressed a
scream—she clung tightly to the
young man.

Graveland Stannard was no cow¬
ard. But the terrifying significance
of that uncanny cry appalled him.

Strange and uneasy yelps of terror
and frightened whimperings came
from the other animals through the
hot night air. Then quite suddenly
came a deadly quiet, a fearful, throb¬
bing silence. Like an unspoken
prophecy of dread import came the
uneasy nerve-racking silence like the
sultry calm before a tropic storm.
The woman shuddered.

Just outside the open bedroom
window, through which the balmy
night air of June whisperingly en¬
tered and gently fanned, with spirit¬
like touch, the heated faces of the
woman and her lover, there suddenly
came a deep menacing growl, fol¬
lowed by a sharp, but low-voiced
command spoken by human tongue.

"My God! The doctor!” she
whispered brokenly. In frantic
fright she clung to Stannard. "For
God’s sake, Stan, he’ll kill me!”
The words were inarticulate; chatter¬
ing teeth forbade clear enunciation,
but the woman’s attitude bespoke the
wildly agonizing fear she felt.

The man thrust her from him rude¬
ly. “ You said he was in New York! ’ ’
he reproached her roughly.

In the darkness of the room Grave-
land Stannard moved rapidly away
from the woman. His hand touched
his hip pocket—his revolver was
there. "Thank heaven for a dark
night!” he muttered.

The woman lay quite still upon the
couch in a paralysis of fear.

Outside in the inky darkness of the
garden a tall, slender man, black of
hair and eye and with pointed black
beard, spoke quietly again to a great
crouching black beast that whimpered
at his feet.

Graveland Stannard knew every
step he was taking in the unlighted
house. His fingers had closed over
the switch in the hallway, the quick
pressure bringing instant darkness.
He crossed rapidly to the side oppo¬
site to that from which had come the
dread voice of the physician he had
so deeply injured.

Stannard straddled the window cas¬
ing and let himself down cautiously,
striving for a safe footing below:
Once in the little grove of pines that
just skirted the house at this point,
he knew he could make his escape to
the roadway unseen.

As his feet touched the ground a
deep, brutish snarl greeted him.
Grim despair seized Stannard. With
wild frenzy he jerked from his
pocket the loaded revolver, but a hu¬
man hand suddenly seized his wrist
with a grip of steel. The tall, black-
bearded man bent Stannard’s arm
upward and back, until the muzzle
of the weapon pointed skyward.
Frantically Stannard strove to bring
it to bear on his powerful antagonist,
but he was as a child in the hands of
the silent, grim, unseen foe. Twist¬
ing and writhing, he sought to grasp
the tall man with his left hand. . . .
Suddenly the weapon was discharged.
Stannard felt a sharp, stinging little
pain, like a tiny pin-prick, in the
fleshy part of his left arm—a sud¬
den sickening nausea—faintness—an
overpowering drowsiness. Without a

THE FIEND OF THE MARSH

665

cry, without even a moan, he sank
upon the soft grass, unconscious.

The tall, black-bearded man spoke
again, calmly, to the great black
beast, which had by his command re¬
mained a snarling neutral during the
struggle. The great shadowy shape
again crouched tremblingly at his
feet, whimpering in a sudden and in¬
explicable fear of its master.

The tall, dark man stooped. In his
hand was a tiny, bright instrument.
With one hand he caught up the loose
flesh on the creature’s back and then
suddenly plunged the deadly little in¬
strument deep therein. A little sting,
like the bite of a horsefly, was felt by
the beast, then it sank to the ground,
an inert, crumpled mass like the
senseless man at its side.

The hyoscin had done its work well.

G raveland stannard woke sudden¬
ly from a nightmare of horrors
to the realization that he was alive
and the belief that he had been
dreaming. Instantly, however, a
nauseating weakness seized him. His
head and face throbbed painfully;
his heart beat violently. He had a
strange sensation of unfamiliarity
with respect to his physical person;
in some inexplicable way he seemed to
have lost the sense of his own iden¬
tity. He felt queerly ill. The acrid
fumes of some powerful anesthetic
arose from his lungs; its pungent
odor filled the room. Dread filled his
mind.

He was not in his own quarters—
he was in a shaky, ramshackle bed in
a cheap and dingy room. And be¬
side him, in a drug-wrought stupor,
lay the woman—his companion in
sin!

Ugh! He turned from her in sud¬
den disgust and loathing, and the
quick movement brought a sharp in¬
crease of the queer pain in his face
and forehead.

With trembling fingers he touched
his face. Merciful heaven! What

was the matter with him? In touch¬
ing his face his hand had come in con¬
tact with long, coarse, bristly, animal¬
like hair!

“Good God!” Stannard gasped in
bewilderment. This was no dream!
What horrible thing had happened to
him?

He sprang from the bed with a
queer, catlike leap and rose to his
full height in front of the the cracked
mirror. For one instant only he
looked in horrified amazement at the
beastlike visage that glared back at
him from the cracked glass, then,
with an ejaculation of terror and
startled wonder, he backed quickly
away from the awful reflection.

For what the amazed and per¬
plexed creature that had once been a
man had now seen before him was
the black, bristly, sharp-muzzled vis¬
age of a wolf—a great black wolf’s
head covered with long, coarse,
matted hair with which his own coal-
black hair seemed to mingle as though
it had always been an integral part!
Narrow, cruel, yellowish-black slant
eyes blazed balefully at him!

Through the same mysterious,
supernatural agency which had
wrought the puzzling, fantastic and
mind-destroying change, his chin had,
in some inexplicable manner, risen to
meet his nose, with which it now
formed the long, sharp, horrible
snout of a wolf. Black gums, rolling
back from the long aperture which
now formed his mouth, disclosed a
great lolling red tongue flanked by
rows of sharp, flashing white fangs—
four saberlike incisors interlapping at
the forward opening of the saliva¬
dripping jaws!

With a wild yelping howl, half hu¬
man, half beastlike in its ferocity, the
weird thing leaped madly over the
bed and the silent, drug-stupefied
woman who lay as one dead. Crouch¬
ing for an instant, it gave vent to
another maddened, terrifying howl of
defiance, and then it leaped from the

WEIRD TALES

floor straight through the open win¬
dow, falling instantly, with wild yells
of terror, into the noisily rushing wa¬
ters of the swollen river below, the
madly swirling current of which
eagerly caught the unfortunate man
in its icy embrace. The hapless crea¬
ture was carried by the fiercely rag¬
ing torrent for miles, the limp, gro¬
tesque body kept afloat upon some
driftwood, and finally thrown upon
the shore.

As for the woman, she still lay in
deathlike sleep on the unclean bed in
the garishly furnished room of a
cheap lodging house of questionable
repute, in a lurid locality. Her once
beautiful features were distorted and
twisted out of all semblance of human
shape; through the sorcery of a sur¬
gical genius the former delicate face
had become a hideous, grinning, ani-
mal-like mask, covered in patches
with grotesque bunches of the long,
coarse black hair of a wolf!

2

TAr. artie green, the principal
druggist of Stappington, stood
in the doorway of his store on Main
Street, engaged in pointing out
to his new clerk from the city, young
Mr. Percy Carthage, the various
celebrities and notables of the village.

Mr. Carthage—blue-eyed, neatly
clad in black, pin-striped suiting,
white shirt and collar and little black
bow tie—was deeply appreciative of
the honor being shown him by his
hospitable and unexacting employer.

“There goes Bill Tucker! Hey,
Bill!” Dr. Green shouted; “c-mon
over heah a minute! Bill’s our
sheriff,” he explained to his alert,
rather serious new assistant.

A big gaunt man in belted cor¬
duroy breeches, wearing boots, a wide
sombrero and a big silver star, sham¬
bled over to the entrance of the store.

“Howdy, Art! — Glad to know
you, sir!” he drawled, acknowledging

Dr. Green’s introduction and giving
the young man’s hand a powerful
grip. “How you be, Doc?”

“So-so, Bill! Anything new
about the Haunted Marshwoods ? ’ ’

“Yes!” replied the sheriff grimly.
“Tom Hammond’s gal, Betty, swears
she was chased, and nearly caught,
last night by the Old Devil of the
Marsh himself! I reckon it’s mostly
all talk, though—there ain’t nothin’
bad ever really happened near those
rotten old woods—yet. I don’t believe
there is anything in that ole swamp
but snakes and toads and vermin. No
self-respecting animal—or devil ei¬
ther, for that matter—would stay in
the gloomy foul old place a minute
even if it wasn’t haunted—it’s too
derned rotten!” the sheriff declared
emphatically. “Well—see you boys
again. ’ ’ He bit off an enormous chew
of tobacco, and lazily took his de¬
parture.

“Mighty queer thing about that
worthless piece of ground,” said Dr.
Green. “Just as Bill says, I don’t
believe there’s a living thing in there
’cept deadly reptiles, poisonous in¬
sects and lice. Nothing grows in
there but the rankest of weeds; all
the trees have died and are rotten,
and the whole growth—trees and rot¬
ten old stumps—is slowly sinkin ’ into
the miserable place—nasty, gloomy
old bog—be a derned good thing if it
would sink altogether.”

“What was that the sheriff said
about something chasing Betty Ham¬
mond?” the new clerk asked.

“Oh, yes. Well, we call it the
Haunted Marsh! You see, some
pretty wild stories have been told
about that queer place and a lot of
us people think it is haunted by a
terrible kind of a Thing—a ghost that
is half man—half devil! The Marsh
Fiend, folks call it. Some swear they
have heard it yell at night, and others
say they have seen it, too, but I have
never heard anything or seen any¬
thing either. Some of the girls claim

THE FIEND OF THE MARSH

667

to have seen it; others swear the aw¬
ful Thing chased them—just as Betty
did!”

“Shade of Dante! What a fan¬
tastic, sinister story! The Marsh
Fiend! Half man—half devil! Must
be a mighty grotesque creature,”
said young Mr. Carthage, with a
shudder.

“There goes the smartest man in
town, and wealthy, too,” said the fat
little druggist, painting out a tall,
white-haired, smooth-shaven man of
about fifty, who was driving a big
car of foreign make. “That’s Dr.
Geoffrey Blackstone—he’s an all-
around scientist, I can tell you! A
fine, high-principled man, but very
peculiar, cold and silent—a cynic, I
guess one would call him—hasn’t
lived in Stappington very long. That
was his daughter Lucille with him—
she’s his only child; mother’s dead.
Nice child, but queer; she don’t talk
much. Old Blackstone has a secre¬
tary, a pretty little girl named Mary
Tabor; and she told my Jennie that
the old man and Lucille live in con¬
stant fear of something, nobody seems
to know what! But there’s a story
going round—Dr. Timmins, our
coroner, says he had it right from
Blackstone’s housekeeper herself—
that Dr. Blackstone won’t let Lucille
out of his sight scarcely—fears some¬
body will kidnap her or kill her, I
reckon! — Well, I declare, Miss
Rosie! What will yon have?” He
turned his attention to a plumply
pretty, rosy-cheeked, full-breasted
country girl who had just entered
the store. “Mr. Carthage, this
is Miss Rosie Carlinson, the youngest
daughter of one of our biggest farm¬
ers—shade hands with Mr. Carthage,
Rosie.”

Miss Rosie blushed a delightful
crimson, and, after a shy word or
two, departed with her quinine and
peppermint drops.

“Doctor, how long has that old

wooded marsh been haunted?” asked
Mr. Carthage.

“Far back as I can remember—
ever since I was a boy!” replied Dr.
Green. “And I can recall hearing
the old folks talk about it being
haunted in their young days! Dr.
Geoffrey Blackstone says only fools
talk such nonsense, but I can tell
you, my boy, that my father was no
fool, and I’ve heard him tell, many
a time, how he saw queer tilings—
lights and white shapes and fiendlike
things a-dancing in those old woods
at night! And he would swear that
he had heard the old Marsh Devil
a-howling—always after midnight!”

A solemn-looking old man, crip¬
pled, wearing the faded blue of the
Union army, entered the store with
long swinging strides of his crutches,
pivoting easily and rapidly on the
one leg the Southern guns had left
him.

“Hello, Uncle Joey!” Dr. Green
called cheerily. “See here, Uncle
Joe, I want you to tell Mr. Carthage
here, my new clerk, all you know
about the Haunted Marshwood—he
don’t believe it’s haunted.”

Uncle Joey suddenly straightened
up in the crutches and hastily crossed
himself. “The less said about such
things, the better,” he rumbled in a
deep bass. “I prefer to keep my
mind on God Almighty—leave the
Devil be! He can take care of him¬
self; he don’t need discussin’; he’s
far too well known as it is!”

The old soldier got his snuff and
tobacco and departed quite agilely in
wide, leaplike strides.

Young Mr. Carthage became quite
thoughtful. There was certainly
something to this fantastic mystery of
the Haunted Wood. A gloomy, for¬
bidding, rotten marshland—a sinis¬
ter, mysterious old bog into whose
depths no human foot had penetrated
for centuries, perhaps. The “Marsh
Devil” they called it. Suppose there
was really a fiend—some hideous ap-

668

WEIRD TALES

parition—some ghostly phantom—in
the Haunted Marsh! The young man
shuddered. It was uncanny.

‘ ‘ Howdy, Dr. Green! ’ ’ said a sweet
voice with a ripple of silver laughter
in it.

A brown-eyed, dark-haired vision
of loveliness in a white organdy
frock stood framed in the doorway.
She wore no hat, and the late after¬
noon sun shot rich high-lights in the
heavy coils of dark brown hair and
sought out tiny freckles on her nose
and under her lovely eyes. The point
of a fluffy, billowy parasol of some
white shimmering stuff rested upon
the toe of a tiny white kid pump,
through which a dainty, highly-
arched instep burst, showing the pink
tint of the satin-soft white flesh be¬
neath the white silken hose.

“Well, Miss Mary! You surely
are a sight for sore eyes! How are
you? Just saw your boss and Miss
Lucille drive by a while ago. Mr.
Carthage, this is Miss Mary Tabor,
Dr. Blackstone’s secretary. Miss
Mary—Mr. Carthage.”

To the sophisticated young man,
the simplicity, daintiness, fresh, nat¬
ural loveliness of Mary Tabor was a
revelation.

Miss Mary Tabor gave one quick
look at Mr. Carthage, then held out
her cool little hand. Mr. Carthage
took that little hand as if it were
broken glass. He tried his best to
speak, but only a hoarse, choking
sound was heard. Thus began an¬
other love story.

3

D R. GEOFFREY BLACKSTONE, the
scientist, was certainly a most
unusual man. There was something
very odd about him; a certain re¬
serve which gave one a marked im¬
pression of a studied aloofness. Some
said it was reticence—the retiring
disposition of a great man. Others
declared it was fear—an indefinite

fear—a constant, nerve-paralyzing
fear of some unknown but dreadful
fate! He seemed always on the alert,
a continual, nerve-straining qui vive;
but whether it was for his own safety
or that of his daughter, no one could
say. All that people really saw was
the cold, unsmiling, cynical man of
science. Dr. Blackstone was said to
be a hard, cruel man. He was cer¬
tainly a sinisterly silent one!

Lucille Blackstone was a quiet girl.
Save for her motor rides with the
.doctor, she lived in the lonely seclu¬
sion of her father’s home, seeing no
one other than Mary Tabor, the doc¬
tor’s lovely young secretary, and the
taciturn and morose old Scotch cou¬
ple who were Dr. Blackstone’s only
servants.

Like the doctor, Ltfcille was dark;
her hair and eyes were black, but
there was absolutely no other resem¬
blance. She was not pretty, but she
was finely educated and possessed
marked artistic talent.

The big limousine of Dr. Geoffrey
Blackstone carrying its two silent
and morose passengers—father and
d a u g h t e r—passed the Haunted
Marsh.

Dark, dank and dismal, enveloped
in its almost perpetual fog from
which fanciful shredded mists arose
like dim specters of long-dead loves,
the gloomy, forbidding thing stood be¬
fore one like a fever-inspired, ghostly
mirage, silent as the grave, save for
the occasional mournful croak of a
frog. Against the gray, soul-chilling
fog, the bare black branches of the
dead trees rose skyward like skeleton
fingers thrusting from the depths of
hell.

Far up in the sky, just over the
dim, shadowy graveyard of trees, a
great vulture hung suspended, a
silent, sinister symbol of the decay of
all things just beneath.

To the east of the Haunted Marsh-
wood a great river flowed turbulent-

THE FIEND OF THE MARSH

ly past its misty edge, slashing its
gloomy shore with malevolent fury.

The gray-faced girl in the ear gave
one quick shuddering look, then
turned and moved closer to the stem¬
faced, silent man beside her, who
looked neither to the right nor the
left, but whose moody gaze seemed
fixed on something far ahead in the
future. When he again looked on the
girl’s melancholy face it was the same
old look of fear he saw there'—a rigid¬
ly set look of hopeless despair. It was
the fear of some fantastically terrible
fate that was to overtake her that was
featured in the depressed mind of the
girl—a brooding insanity, or perhaps
it was a look of long-fostered, malig¬
nant hate and, deep distrust of the
doctor himself.

But why should she hate him? The
girl did not know—she certainly
could not even suspect.

Yet, Dr. Geoffrey Blackstone loved
his queer, silent daughter better than
life itself—he lived only for her!

T he days passed quickly for Percy
Carthage. His romantic young
soul, craving love and adventure,
caused him to divide his time between
love’s young dream and the Haunted
Marsh.

Night after night, after saying
good-night to Mary Tabor, he walked
past the dreary, mournful waste,
his loaded revolver clutched tight¬
ly in his side pocket. The lonely,
mist-veiled marshwood held for him
an eery fascination. Just what he ex¬
pected to see or hear he did not know
—but he hoped and prayed for it no
matter what it was.

He saw nothing. He heard nothing
save the occasional hoot of an owl or
the melancholy croak of a raven. .

Upon one night in particular, after
he had escorted Mary Tabor home
from a motion picture show, some im¬
pulse drew him to the desolate but
fascinating place. Once there, em¬
boldened by the white light of a full

moon, he made an attempt to pierce
the thicket of thorn-brush which
edged the treacherous, mud-oozing
ground of the gloomy morass. Suc¬
cessful in this, at the cost of bleeding
hands and torn legs, his first steps
toward the heart of the Haunted
Marsh resulted in his body sinking
almost to the knees in the clutching
mud. Only with extreme difficulty
had he extricated himself from the
perilous predicament, and again es¬
sayed the prickly barrier for the
safety of the open roadway.

The awful stillness of the gruesome
place had been destroyed by his
frantic, crashing exit therefrom. He
had no sooner reached the road than
there came a long, mournful shriek
that suddenly ended in a burst of
cackling, sardonic laughter.

When a lad at school, Mr. Carthage
had run rather well. He found he
had improved most amazingly since
then.

O ne morning the village folk were
horrified by the finding of pretty
little Rosie Carlinson, bruised and
bleeding and unconscious, on the
roadway at the edge of the Haunted
Marsh.

The previous night Rosie had left
home about sundown to visit the fam¬
ily of a neighboring farmer. She
never reached the home of her friends.

Upon regaining consciousness all
she could remember was that when
she was crossing the roadway near
the Haunted Marsh, she was suddenly
and suffocatingly seized by the throat,
from behind. Before losing conscious¬
ness she had caught one glimpse of a
terrible Thing with a great black
head, from which, on either side,
there protruded short, pointed horns.

Sheriff Tucker and the town mar¬
shal quickly organized a posse of
eager volunteers, of which Mr. Carth¬
age was an early and ardent member.
Attempt after attempt to enter and
search the Haunted Marshwood was

670

WEIRD TALES

made, but the deadly tenacity of the
dangerous quagmire forced them to
abandon the search after one man
had nearly lost his life. At night
the loathsome place had again been
surrounded by the incensed farmers,
and volley after volley from rifles and
shotguns had been sent hurtling into
every part of its noisome, poisonous
depths, but had resulted only in
eliciting defiant, ear-splitting howls
of rage from the unseen Fiend of the
Marsh, which he alternated with
shrill bursts of fearful, taunting
laughter.

The following day in the bright
sunlight a few of the more venture¬
some younger men succeeded in mak¬
ing a search of the lonely place, en¬
dangering their lives in the treacher¬
ous bog-land of the Haunted Marsh.
Their efforts were unsuccessful—they
found nothing alive save reptiles and
woodlice. They heard nothing, save
the hoarse croaking of the frogs.

Feeling ran high in the little vil¬
lage for a while. Anger was, how¬
ever, most futile; none seemed able
to cope with the situation.

Rosie Carlinson recovered slowly.
Excitement, which had been at fever
pitch, subsided rapidly, as it always
does.

The search for the Fiend of the
Marsh was given up as hopeless.

“ "Percy/ ’ said Mary Tabor one day,

-*■ “do you know, I’m afraid of
Dr. Blackstone lately! He watches
me so closely—he asked me about
you, too. Wanted to know if you car¬
ried a revolver. I told him I did not
know. Do you?”

“No!” replied Percy; “that is,
not always. But you tell him ‘no*
if he asks you again.”

Miss Tabor daintily sipped her
chocolate soda.

“I really believe Dr. Blackstone is
afraid of that old Marsh Devil!
When I spoke of the Haunted Wood,
I saw fear—positive fear, or dread of

something —in his eyes! I’m not
afraid of that old Marsh Fiend—I’d
go by there any time—I’ve a pistol,”
proudly. “I showed it to the doctor
and Lucille; I’ve gone by that nasty
old marsh many a time, and nothing
ever happened to me!”

Young Mr. Carthage suddenly
went quite white.

“Good Lord, Mary! Please don’t
do that! Please, if you love me,
don’t do that! For God’s sake don’t
go near that place alone!”

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary.
Shall! Must!” defiantly proclaimed
that perverse young lady. Her dark
eyes grew very bright; the crimson
little mouth settled into a straight,
determined line, and the flush of
coral pink deepened markedly in her
cheeks.

“Mary! Please don’t-”

Mary smiled a quick, dimply little
smile; her pretty eyes twinkled ro¬
guishly. “Thank you so very much
for the nice soda, Doctor Carthage! ’ ’
she said with mock formalfty,' and
quite calmly departed.

Young Mr. Carthage stared mood¬
ily at nothing. He suddenly regis¬
tered a solemn vow that he would not
leave Mary Tabor’s side for a second
in the evenings. Why did Dr. Black¬
stone want to know if he carried a
gun? What was Dr. Blackstone
afraid of? Surely not of him. Or
was he really afraid? Was Dr.
Blackstone the-?

“Hey! Percy! Ma is waiting for
you to come to dinner,” the ruddy¬
faced little druggist announced.

4

S everal days later Dr. Geoffrey
Blackstone, accompanied by Lu¬
cille, went to the metropolis, driving
the big car himself.

When they did not return from
this regular weekly trip at the usual
time, Miss Mary Tabor allowed just
one hour to elapse before her nerves

THE FIEND OF THE MARSH

671

got the better of her ; then she tele¬
phoned to Percy Carthage.

Almost at the same instant Andy
McKeown, a farmer, and Sheriff Wil¬
liam Tucker, lifted the inert and un¬
conscious body of Dr. Geoffrey Black-
stone from the farmer’s wagon and
carried him into the drugstore.
There was an ugly wound in the fore¬
head from which the blood was slowly
trickling.

Andy McKeown had found him on
the roadway just at the edge of the
Haunted Wood. The doctor’s car
lay overturned in a ditch, evidently
having been precipitated there
through sudden loss of control. His
assailant, no doubt, had sprung upon
the running board of the moving car;
a struggle, apparently, had followed,
in which the doctor had been struck
upon the head with some heavy,
blunt instrument, and the car, lack¬
ing a guiding hand, had veered into
the ditch and turned turtle.

The idea of an accident was out of
the question, for Lucille had mysteri¬
ously disappeared. Not even a trace
of her could be found.

On regaining consciousness Dr.
Blackstone informed the sheriff and
the town marshal, who had taken him
to his home, that just about dusk, as
he was passing the Haunted Marsh on
his way home, a shadowy, grotesque
form suddenly burst from the slowly
rising mists which partly screened the
marshwoods from the roadway, and
with apelike agility it had leaped
upon the rapidly moving machine.

In grappling with his assailant,
which had the face of a devil and
emitted demoniac howls of rage as it
fought madly, he was forced to re¬
linquish the wheel. Paralyzed with
fear, Lucille made no attempt to con¬
trol the swerving car. Before it
plunged into the ditch, the horrible
Thing struck the doctor a terrific
blow on the head—just as the car
overturned.

Led by Sheriff Tucker, the town

marshal, and Sam Carlinson—the
father of poor little Rosie, first vic¬
tim of the Marsh Fiend—the posse
of irate farmers quickly organized
again.

An all-night search ensued. Sher¬
iff Tucker and Percy Carthage pen¬
etrated the marsh for quite a distance
before the sheriff, losing the little
trail of semi-solid ground which they
had found with great difficulty, sank
to his armpits in the treacherous bog.
An hour was lost in rescuing the
sheriff.

Reinforcements were obtained and
the entire stretch of loathsome marsh
was surrounded. Frantic attempts
were made by the incensed men to
comb its entire extent. Their endeav¬
ors were temporarily abandoned only
after three men had sunk in the quag¬
mire.

Sam Carlinson’s idea to fire the
whole poisonous confine was rejected
for the reason that if Lucille was held
a helpless prisoner somewhere within
the rotten heart of the swamp, her
death would be caused along with
that of her mysterious captor.

Lanterns, boards and ropes were
procured. By laying the boards flat
upon the surface of the mire, the men
were enabled, after considerable diffi¬
culty and only by keeping a tight
hold upon the ropes with which they
had formed a human chain, to locate
the pathway of semi-solid ground
again.

Several huge footprints were found
upon this pathway closely resembling
those of a human being, but gigantic
in size and grotesque in shape.
These led to the foot of an enormous
dead tree in which it seemed the
fiend had taken refuge with his prey.
Just where its three largest limbs
forked there was a large opening.

Whether the loathsome Thing was
hidden in the tree with the unfortu¬
nate girl, or had simply climbed it,
and, swinging apelike from its
branches to those of the adjoining

672

WEIRD TALES

dead oaks, had passed to some hidden
lair in the heart of the marshwood
was matter of conjecture. But the
men lost no time, and the mighty
ringing blows of their sharp axes soon
leveled the rotten tree, and split its
mighty trunk full wide. Save for the
loose, rotten bark, the great tree was
empty.

Swinging out in a wide circle, but
connected by the ropes to the main
force who kept to the safer pathway,
the sheriff, Sam Carlinson, young Mr.
Carthage and the town marshal
pushed through the pitch-dark wood¬
ed morass.

Fitful little eery bursts of flame,
flashing first one place and then an¬
other, gave an elfin touch of mystery
to the weird scene. The posse of
bearded, stem-faced men, carrying
lanterns and armed with rifles, re¬
volvers and axes, followed silently,
with grim purpose, the devious wind¬
ings of the little path which wound in
labyrinthine circles about the mist-
shrouded swampwood.

From time to time, fiendish yells of
derision and bursts of sardonic
laughter—demoniac, blood-curdling,
hair-raising—quickened the pulses of
those sturdy men. Abandoning the
ropes, leaping from semi-solid ground
to points of safety, with mighty ef¬
forts the wide line swung toward the
point from which the terrible cries
appeared to come, only to find, when
the two ends converged, that the Devil
of the Marsh had disappeared, and to
be instantly greeted with its madden¬
ing yells and taunting shrieks of deri¬
sion from stone far portion of the
wood.

Unable to cope in the blackness of
the night with the baffling movements
of the uncanny Thing, the men placed
pickets about the marshwood in close
proximity, and abandoned the search
until daylight.

Goaded to madness by the awful
crime, the posse, reinforced by hor¬
rified farmers from a neighboring vil¬

lage, made a thorough and systematic
search of the Haunted Marsh. Al¬
though they covered its entire extent,
not a trace or sign of its inhuman,
evil and weird inhabitant could be
found.

At daybreak, just within the thorn¬
brush and poison-ivy thicket which
completely edged the entire circum¬
ference of the marsh, they found the
remains of young Lucille Blaekstone.

A t the conclusion of the inquest,
Dr. Blaekstone, pale and trem¬
bling, his head swathed in bandages,
rose from his seat in the crowded of¬
fice of Dr. Timmins, the coroner.

The room was at once cleared of
all except the coroner, the sheriff, the
town marshal, Dr. Green and young
Mr. Carthage.

“It is rather unusual, Dr. Black-
stone.” The coroner spoke doubt¬
fully. “But I guess it’s all right, in
the interest of science; and as it is
you-”

“It is quite regular, I assure yon,
doctor!” Dr. Blaekstone spoke slow¬
ly and calmly, but a marked suppres¬
sion of feeling was evidenced by the
tense tones of the aristocratic, white-
haired old scientist. “It is not only
in the interest of science, doctor; it
is an attempt to identify, if it is pos¬
sible to do so, now—the murderer of
my daughter!

“By photographing the retina of
the eyes of the victim, ’ ’ he continued,
in queerly cold, unfeeling tones, “a
good likeness of the murderer may be
obtained!

“I ask your patience, gentlemen—
I shall explain. While pursuing my
medical studies in Europe I was for¬
tunate enough to witness many un¬
usual and startling experiments. I
met Monsieur Bertillon, the great
criminologist; he was engaged at that
particular time in- endeavoring to
construct a photographic apparatus
so powerful that with it he could
photograph the retina of the human

THE FIEND OF THE MARSH

673

eye, which at the same time magnified
it so greatly that a clear image of the
individual last seen by the victim
would readily be reproduced.

“But, gentlemen, Monsieur Bertil-
lon failed; I succeeded, after much
labor and perseverance. I now pro¬
pose, gentlemen, to obtain a photo¬
graph of the last thing seen by my
daughter in life—her murderer, the
Fiend of the Marsh!”

With the assistance of Dr. Tim¬
mins, the coroner, Dr. Blackstone
then calmly and skilfully photo¬
graphed the retinas of his dead
daughter’s eyes. He then returned to
his home and went at once to his
dark room to develop the plates.

Five minutes later, Mary Tabor, at
work in the office of the old scientist
which adjoined the room in which the
doctor was then engaged on his grue¬
some task, heard an agonized groan,
and a sudden crash. When she
burst open the door of the dark room,
Dr. Blackstone lay upon the floor un¬
conscious. At his feet lay the re¬
mains of a recently developed plate
—still wet from the hyposulfite of
soda.

Later, when Mary Tabor pieced the
broken parts of the plate together
and made a quick print therefrom, it
only showed her the rather prepos¬
sessing face of a dark, sullen-looking
young man—whose features bore
quite a marked resemblance to those
of Lucille Blackstone.

5

'T'he picket guard of the Haunted
Marsh was rigorously continued,
with military precision and disci¬
pline, for a whole week. Several fur¬
ther attempts to penetrate its infer¬
nal depths had been made, but these,
like all preceding ones, proved most
disappointing and unsuccessful.

During the night following the
finding of the body of the unfortu¬
nate young girl, one of the guards

W. T»—3

declared that he had seen a great,
apelike creature swinging nimbly
among the branches of one of the
dead trees. He had emptied both
rifle and revolver at the uncanny
Thing, but for some inexplicable rea¬
son the shots took no effect—the
Thing disappearing with, supernat¬
ural suddenness, although its defiant
screams and yells of derision were
heard by the guards long afterward.

Plans had been formed to bum to
the ground the entire stretch of the
dismal marshwood by means of oils
and chemicals. After being care¬
fully considered, however, they were
abandoned as impracticable. Other
plans were discussed, none of which
proved feasible, and these, like the
one to fire the terrible place, were
abandoned, one by one, as the horror
of the murder abated and the anger
of the people cooled.

October came, bringing the glori¬
ous harvest moon.

About midnight, just two weeks af¬
ter the funeral of Dr. Blackstone’s
daughter, the slender figure of a girl,
dressed in Tyhite, passed slowly and
hesitatingly along the edge of the
Haunted Marsh. Framed against the
somber black of the wood, from
which arose gigantic, spectral mists,
the dead whiteness of her garments
stood out in*startling, mysterious re¬
lief.

The pale moonlight tinted with
eery touch each slowly rising, phan¬
tomlike vapor with a fanciful tracery
of sickly green. The doleful cry of a
whippoorwill broke the silence.

The girl seemed entirely unaware
of the lateness of the hour and the
loneliness of the dreadful place, and
was apparently oblivious to the hid¬
den danger that lurked menacingly
within the Haunted Marsh—the hor¬
rible, slant-eyed fiend whose lusting
glances followed every move of her
young body.

Upon reaching the end of the dis¬
mal marshwood which led into a

674

WEIRD TALES

wide, open field, the girl turned and
retraced her steps. As she did so, a
great, shadowy shape moved noise¬
lessly and rapidly just inside the
tangled hedge of thorn-brush and
creeping poison-ivy, which, like a
bristling array of elfin spears,
guarded the entrance to the filthy
morass.

The terrible Thing was following
her, moving silently and swiftly, with
sinister intent..

The moon passed into a cloud-bank,
blotting out its mystic tracery of the
ghostly mists and covering the
Haunted Marsh and the roadway
with inky blackness.

With a snarl of frenzied lust the
Thing leaped the prickly hedge with
tigerlike swiftness, and landing light¬
ly on all fours ten feet from its vic¬
tim, crouched for the final brutal
spring. Just as it leaped the thorn¬
brush hedge, the girl suddenly whirled
about with startling rapidity, and
backing off a few feet, quickly ex¬
tended her right arm in its direction.
As the weird Thing sprang toward
her in a mighty leap, five bursts of
flame flashed from the extended
weapon in rapid succession.

The Fiend of the Marsh screeched
wildly—flopped grotesquely to the
roadway and sprawled out, a great,
black, quivering, beastlike shape!
The moon left the cloud-bank, throw¬
ing a gigantic shadow of the awful
Thing on the roadway.

Awkwardly the girl pulled up the
white dress and from some hidden
pocket drew a second weapon. Keep¬
ing her eyes steadily on the still
writhing fiend, she advanced upon it
cautiously, covering the prostrate
Thing with loaded revolver. The
Thing on the ground gave a convul¬
sive shudder, then lay quite still.

The Fiend of the Marsh was no
more.

Young Mr. Carthage wiped the
cold sweat from his forehead with the
back of his right hand. Tucking up

the unusual and encumbering skirts,
he bent over the Thing.

“Shades of all the demons!
Half man and half beast!” he said,
in tones of horror, as he gazed at the
great, black, hairy head.

6

T he Fiend of the Haunted Marsh
lay on a table in the office of the
coroner—a cloth covered the grisly
head.

In turn, Coroner Timmins, Sheriff
Tucker, Talbot Giddings—the gray¬
haired old town marshal—Dr. Green
and many of the farmers had viewed
with amazement and repulsion the
frightful monster.

Freak of birth or creation of the
Devil? The grotesque monstrosity
lay stiff and cold, its fiendish activ¬
ities over. Though its horrid black
head of a beast was covered, the body
of the queer creature was exposed.
The muscular torso, legs and arms of
a human being were covered with
long black hair, matted and splotched
with dried black mud from the awful
swamp which had so long served as
its abode.

Percy Carthage described how he
had tricked and killed the fiend.

The informal proceedings came
quickly to an end.

“Well, that is the end of the Fiend
of the Marsh. Thank God!” said
Dr. Timmins, with a feeling of in¬
tense relief that was experienced by
all present.

The men arose to leave.

“But—good Lord, doctor! How
do you account for this fantastic ab¬
normality?” asked little Dr. Green.

“Yes, doctor,” young Mr. Car¬
thage supplemented, “that is the
question. ’ ’

The door opened suddenly and Dr.
Geoffrey Blackstone quietly entered.
He was very pale. He bowed with
quiet dignity! to each man present.

“Gentlemen,” he spoke solemnly,
sadly, “I have a favor to ask. Will

THE FIEND OF THE MARSH

675

you be seated? I have something to
say.”

A sense of the unusual, an awed
expectancy, an overwhelming wave of
curiosity surged through the minds
of all present. They resumed their
seats.

Dr. Blackstone remained standing.
His thin, sharp, esthetic face was al¬
most as white as his hair. He walked
to the table whereon lay the Fiend of
the Marsh. He raised the cloth, giv¬
ing a single quick glance of repulsion.
With hands that trembled he quickly
replaced the cloth, then turned to
face his fellow men.

“Gentlemen,” he began, with quiet
dignity, “that monster was once a
man—a handsome, cultured man.”

The old scientist was silent for a
moment; then he spoke again:
“Once, gentlemen, I had the reputa¬
tion of being the world’s greatest
neuro-facial surgeon—a specialist in
plastic surgery. Of middle age, I
had a beautiful young wife. I was
happy. But my happiness was short¬
lived. A handsome young artist
named Graveland Stannard won the
affections of my wife. I knew she
was untrue. My love died instantly,
but my vanity and self-esteem suf¬
fered a keen hurt. My honor was
smirched. A fierce hatred overpow¬
ered me; my direst anger was
aroused; rage obsessed me. Through
my great surgical skill I determined
to avenge the soul-killing injury I
had been made to suffer, to make
them both pay a hellish toll for the
wrong they had done me.

“I left my home ostensibly for a
trip to New York, but late that very
night I returned quietly to my home.
Graveland Stannard was there, she
was in his arms! I heard their voices
as I stood outside beneath the win¬
dow, in the warm, beautiful June
night. I left the garden, skirted the
garage, and entered the building
where I kept my animals for experi¬
mentation. I had a great black Rus¬

sian wolf; through much experiment
and kindness he had become quite
tame, even affectionate, toward me;
none else dared touch him. I re¬
turned to the garden. Terror, the
great wolf, followed me like a dog.
Outside the window, Terror heard
Stannard’s voice, and snarled in sud¬
den inexplicable anger. I was forced
to speak to him—to quiet him. The
guilty pair heard and recognized my
voice; Stannard proved the cad he
was and attempted to escape, caring
naught for the woman!”

Dr., Blackstone paused. It was so
quiet in the little office of the coroner
that one could count one’s heart¬
beats.

‘ ‘ Gentlemen, I am taxing your pa¬
tience ; I must also tax your credulity.
The great wolf suddenly broke from
me, and running to the other side of
the house, crouched in the shrubbery
beneath a certain window.

“As Stannard’s feet reached the
ground I grasped his arm; he drew
a weapon, but by superior strength I
forced his arm upward and back and
the weapon was discharged harmless¬
ly. "With my other hand I drove
home in his left arm a hypodermic
syringe filled with hyoscin. The
man’s muscles relaxed, he sank to the
ground, unconscious. I gave the
same dose to the great wolf, though it
grieved me. I dragged them both to
my operating room in a secluded
building on my estate. I stole to my
wife’s room, and unheeding the whim¬
pering fool, I overcame her frantic
struggles with a powerful anesthetic.

“All through the night I labored
with the three of them—the man, the
woman, the great wolf. With diaboli¬
cal skill I had not dreamed I pos¬
sessed, I transformed the face of the
man into the startling, frightful sem¬
blance of a wolf, grafting the skin of
the head of that animal on his face.
The lovely features of the woman I
disfigured forever, giving her a twist¬
ed, horribly unnatural countenance,

676

WEIRD TALES

the face of a satyr, and covered it
also with the hair of the wolf.

“For weeks I kept these two con¬
fined, wider the influence of a drug,
until my terrible work was complete.
Then, once again under anesthesia, I
conveyed them to a room in a cheap
lodging house, and left them, to
awake in horror and consternation, to
gaze at each other with loathing and
fright, with hatred, with disgust.”

Dr. Geoffrey Blackstone paused
and again walked to the table with its
gruesome object. Raising the cloth,
he displayed the horrible features of
the man-beast. A great, black, hairy
head, cruel, staring slant-eyes, the
long black snout, the gleaming teeth,
gums drawn back in the last snarl of
the Fiend of the Marsh. The head of
a great black wolf glared at him, in
wild but impotent anger, it seemed to
the doctor.

The doctor suddenly replaced the
cloth. He turned again to his audi¬
ence.

“Gentlemen, that is all that re¬
mains of Graveland Stannard. As
for the woman, I never saw, or heard
of her, again. Just how Stannard
arrived at the Haunted Marsh, and
made his hidden lair therein, I can
not explain; perhaps he came by way
of the rivei', unseen. ’ ’

Dr. Blackstone ceased speaking.
His labored breathing was most audi¬
ble. He was silent for some min¬
utes, then spoke again. The even,
slow tones of the scientist trembled;
he labored under some marked excite¬
ment.

‘ ‘ There is one thing more I can not
explain, for I do not understand it
myself,” he said nervously; “and
that is, gentlemen, when I photo¬
graphed the retina of the eyes of my
dead child—murdered by yonder
devil of my own creation—the plate
printed most plainly the features of

young Graveland Stannard, just as
he was before I disfigured him!”

There was the stillness of death in
the little room. The faces of his lis¬
teners were rigidly set.

Dr. Blackstone handed Coroner
Timmins a photograph of the retina
of the eyes of his daughter Lucille.
This was passed by him to each man
in turn. Each viewed it with startled
amazement, for despite the cracks, the
print showed most plainly and un¬
mistakably the features of a dark,
strikingly handsome young man,
whose countenance so closely resem¬
bled that of the murdered girl that
he would have been taken for a twin
brother.

Those present in the little room
were speechless. Filled with horror
at the terrible confession of the doc¬
tor, the startling denouement ren¬
dered them almost incapable of
thought.

Dr. Timmins broke the spell. He
walked to the table, and raising the
cloth from the face of the monster,
viewed, with coldly professional eyes,
the ghastly thing that lay there. “A
most wonderful piece of work, doc¬
tor!” he said, admiringly.

None heard the valiant speech.
Their puzzled brains were busy,
struggling with the uncanny result of
the unusual experiment in photog¬
raphy ; the startling, supernatural
thing the camera had done.

Dr. Blackstone picked up his coat
and hat. “My revenge, gentlemen”
—he seemed quite calm again, and his
tones were cold and even—“acted as
a boomerang: it came back to me,
robbing me of my dearest possession,
my daughter Lucille!”

The doctor left the room quietly.

“My God!” said little Dr. Green,
under his breath; “horrible!”

Slowly the men filed out of the lit¬
tle room.

T HE one condition of Dr. Ivan
Brodsky’s psychical work that
he found most burdensome
was the constant requests that poured
in upon him from innumerable people
who had come to hear of him. On
all sides he was beset by applications
for assistance and advice in the solu¬
tion of some problem which, while
immensely increasing his reputation,
left him little time for the prosecu¬
tion of his investigations. He was
forced to refuse many of these appli¬
cants, who, in return, denounced him
as a charlatan. Brodsky received de¬
nunciation and praise with equal in¬
difference.

By this time he had severed his
connection with the hospital and de¬
voted his time entirely to private
practise among patients suffering
from rare mental and nervous disor¬
ders. As an attached physician, he
felt that the ethics of the profession

i “The Surgeon of Souls.”

excluded the use of non-recognized
remedies. In private practise he felt
free to make use of his knowledge of
those spiritual causes which, he
claimed, underlay all physical mani¬
festations of disease.

One morning I found him in earn¬
est conversation with a visitor, a
young man of agitated aspect who,
on seeing me enter, rose from his
chair precipitately and prepared to
take his departure.

“Don’t go,” said Dr. Brodsky;
“allow me to introduce you to my
secretary, who is my confidential as¬
sistant in these matters.”

The young man, who was intro¬
duced to me as Mr. 'John Sykes, sat
down again. His agitation was still
more manifest; he stared around him
as one bewildered.

“Now, Mr. Sykes, suppose you re¬
peat your story,” said Dr. Brodsky.
“Begin at the beginning and don’t
leave out anything, even if it seems
to you to be of trivial moment.”

677

678

WEIRD TALES

“Well, sir,” said the young man
impetuously, “as I said to you at
first, I am greatly in doubt whether
this is a case for you or for a jury.
But I wish to exhaust every possible
remedy before taking the law into
my own hands. Then, if I become
convinced beyond all possibility of
doubt that my wife is untrue to me,
I shall put a bullet through my broth¬
er’s head, and another afterward
through my own.”

“Which wouldn’t help either of
you in the least,” replied Brodsky
suavely. “You would find your¬
selves immediately transplanted into
another hot so very different world,
with your enmity still at boiling
point, but without the physical means
of allaying it. Suppose you con¬
tinue.”

“My name, as I have said, is John
Sykes,” said the young man more
calmly. “My brother Philip and I
were the only children of our father
and the inheritors of the Sykes estate.
My father cut me out of his will on
account of my marriage. My wife is a
woman whom no man could feel
ashamed of; my offense was that of
having married without asking his
consent. He was subject to fits of
temper and changed his will. Had
he lived he would undoubtedly have
forgiven me. But unfortunately he
died almost immediately afterward,
leaving the Sykes mansion and
grounds to Philip, while I was forced
to continue the owner of a little cot¬
tage adjacent which I bought some
years ago. Naturally, this caused an
estrangement between my brother
and me. I, myself, am happy enough
in my cottage, and, until a few days
ago, when I first doubted my wife’s
affection, no happier mortal existed.
My wife, however, had always felt a
sentimental regard for the old man¬
sion. It would naturally have passed
to us, Philip receiving an equivalent

in cash. The disappointment has
greatly affected her.

“Some weeks ago, my brother and
I having then been estranged for sev¬
eral months, I surprized my wife one
afternoon coming out of the mansion,
where he was and still is living. You
can imagine my consternation. My
brother had already everything that
I lacked save only her; was I to be
bereft of her through any machina¬
tions of his to draw her within the
sphere of his interests? I taxed her
with visiting him; she admitted it
and, weeping, explained that she had
gone only to intercede for me. She
wanted us to be friends, and, above
everything else, she wanted Philip to
sell us the mansion upon favorable
terms, as he purposed traveling
abroad and was not bound to it by
any such intense attachment such as
she had conceived. Philip had al¬
most yielded to her request. I, how¬
ever, am not of a temperament easily
placated. I suspected that my broth¬
er was partly instrumental in the
changing of our father’s wilL I re¬
fused to have any kind of dealings
with him. I scolded her for visiting
him, explained the misconstruction
that might be put upon such an act
by village gossip, and she promised
me never to see him again.

“A few weeks ago I learned from
servants’ chatter that the Sykes man¬
sion was reputed to be haunted by the
spirit of a woman. The butler had
told a village crony that the figure
of a woman walked through the rooms
and passages at night. He had seen
it, had taken it for a sleep-walker
and essayed to catch it, but it had
vanished before his eyes and his
hands had grasped only thin air.

“I am something of a student and
often sit up alone all night with my
books and papers. I am at present
engaged in writing a monograph up¬
on our American bats. Sometimes
my observations take me away for a

THE TENTH COMMANDMENT

679

day or two, so that my wife and I
see not too much of one another. In¬
deed, of late, since the episode I re¬
ferred to, we seem to have begun to
drift apart. I am not a believer in
the supernatural, and this foolish gos¬
sip of the butler aroused the most
terrible suspicions in me. I resolved
to discover for myself what truth lay
in the rumor.

“Pretending to be about to set off
on a two-day journey for the purpose
of obtaining specimens, I came back
at night and concealed myself in an
old building, now unoccupied, but
formerly used as a bam by my grand¬
father, adjoining the mansion. From
here I was enabled to obtain a clear
view of a large part of the interior,
which is built in a rambling way and
can in this manner be overlooked. I
saw my brother lower the light in his
study, and a minute or two later saw
the lamp flash out in his bedroom.
The lower portion of the house was
plunged into darkness.

“It was past midnight. I was
about to dismiss my project as a
chimera, feeling much ashamed of my
suspicions, when an irresistible im¬
pulse impelled me to go to the open
window of the darkened study. Act¬
uated by the same instinct which
seemed to force me onward against
my will, I crept in noiselessly, trav¬
ersed the room, and emerged into the
corridor. From the far end a veiled
figure came gliding toward me. For
a moment the eeriness of the situation,
I confess, rooted me to the spot with
horror. It came nearer; and sudden¬
ly I found myself looking into what I
can swear was the face of my wife.
Another moment, and the figure had
passed me, with the same noiseless
tread, and vanished into the distance.

“I do not know how long I re¬
mained there. When I came to my
senses I was in my cottage, fumbling
with a pistol. I dashed up to my
wife’s room and hammered violently
upon the door. Suddenly she came

out and confronted me. She was
robed in a dressing gown and looked
up with innocent, frightened eyes, as
though just awakened out of sleep. I
made no answer to her terrified ap¬
peals, but rushed out of the house
and came straight to you, knowing
that if there could be any super¬
natural solution of the difficulty you
would put me out of my suspense.
While the period between our en¬
counter in the mansion and that in
my own cottage seems almost too short
to have enabled her to return and as¬
sume the role she played, I confess
that I look upon you as the last pos¬
sible refuge left me before I commit
some act of desperation.”

I t was impossible not to be deeply
impressed by the evident sincerity
of the young man and by his deep dis¬
tress. For my part, I was inclined to
believe the worst. But a glance into
Brodsky’s impassive face convinced
me that he did not share my suspi¬
cions. Brodsky’s opinions of women
were curiously fine; as I learned af¬
terward, and hope subsequently to be
able to tell, his life had been molded
by one of the noblest characters, who
had died before the day set for their
marriage, leaving him to cherish her
memory as a continual inspiration.

We determined to start at once for
the village, which was some fifteen
miles distant, situated in the heart of
a sparsely settled farming country.
It was decided, both in view of the
young man’s excited condition and in
order to enable us to pursue our in¬
vestigations freely, which conscience
would not have permitted had we been
the guests of Mrs. Sykes, that we
should make our headquarters at the
village inn, where Sykes was expect¬
ing to meet a man who might throw
light upon the problem. We arrived
there late in the afternoon and found
the place empty of visitors, it being
late-in the fall. As we were seated
in the spacious old-fashioned parlor,

WEIRD TALES

an elderly man of consequential de¬
meanor came softly and furtively up
the back path. Sykes rose to meet
him.

“Gentlemen, this is Jones, my
brother’s butler and an old employee
of my father’s,” he said, rising dra¬
matically and locking the door. “Now
Jones, repeat what you told me yes¬
terday.”

“I’ve more to tell you since I saw
you yesterday, Mr. John,” said Jones
huskily. He adopted toward the
young man that mixture of patronage
and servility which indicates, in a
menial, the acceptance of some bribe
in return for a dereliction of duty.
“We saw her last night, sir. I
thought I heard a burglar down¬
stairs and dressed myself and went
out to see. On the landing I met the
master coming out of his room. He
had heard the noise too. We went
down softlike, and suddenly we saw
her, as plain as life, coming along the
passage. ’ ’

“Who was she?” interrupted Sykes
in a voice choking with emotion.

“That I wouldn’t take it upon my¬
self to say, sir,” said the butler with
a smirk. “ ’Twasn’t anybody I know,
leastways, so far as I could tell by the
walk, because she wore a veil and was
all in white, which is a powerful dis-
guiser for females, sir. So I says to
myself: ‘Jones, if the master chooses
to have young female ghosts in his
house at 2 in the morning, that ain’t
no business of yours.’ So I turns to
go back, and, while I was looking at
her, she disappeared, right under my
eyes.”

Suddenly Sykes flew at the man
like a deerhound and grasped him by
the collar, shaking him furiously.

“You rascal, tell me who the wom¬
an was,” he cried.

The butler’s face turned purple.

“’Twasn’t anybody I know, sir,”
he gasped, breaking loose and reeling
back against the wall. “I’ll swear it
wasn’t any human living being, sir.

She vanished right before my very

Sykes stood off and looked at the
man contemptuously.

“Jones,” he said, “you are a dirty,
lying hound. You told your cronies
here that it was Mrs. Sykes.”

The man began to tremble.

“You know me from old times,
Jones,” continued the young man
more coldly. “You shall have one
chance to prove your statement, and
if you can’t I’ll shoot you like a dog.”

“I swear”—the man began to bab¬
ble—“I swear I told nobody. But it
was her, Mr. John, and I can’t lie to
you. I’m willing to prove it and to
stake my life on it.”

“Jones,” said the young man,
“these gentlemen are friends of
mine. At 10 o’clock tonight, or as
soon afterward as the light goes out
in your master’s study, we shall be at
the side door. You will unlock it and
admit us to the empty picture gallery
which commands a full view of the
corridors. Here!” He took a roll of
bills from his pocket and peeled off
half a dozen. “Take this for your
services. And if ever you say a word
in the village-”

“Yes sir—yes, Mr. John,” bab¬
bled the man, pouching the money
with avidity. “I’ll be there on time,
sir. ’ ’ He turned and crept out of the
room. Once outside, however, he
gradually reassumed his jaunty de¬
meanor.

When he was gone, John Sykes be¬
gan to pace the floor with long strides.
Brodsky and I watched him in silence.
Presently he wheeled and came up to
us.

“You see my wife’s name has be¬
come a byword of village gossip,” he
exclaimed angrily. ‘ ‘ Evidently in her
infatuation she has lost all sense of
fear. As likely as not she is even
now planning a return trip to the
mansion. I have no criticism to make
of her,” he went on brokenly. “It is
my brother who has first robbed me of

THE TENTH COMMANDMENT

6tl

my inheritance and then of the only
woman I have loved. May they be
accursed-”

“Stop!” said Brodsky, laying his
hand restrainingly upon the young
man’s shoulder. “It will be time to
accuse her when you know. At pres¬
ent you know nothing.”

'John Sykes looked at him incredu¬
lously.

“Do you mean—that there can be
any hope?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Do you think she is innocent?”

“I believe in all women as long as
I can,” said Brodsky simply.

. Nevertheless, looking into his face,
I read the struggle which he was
undergoing against the weight of the
evidence. And suddenly the young
man collapsed into a chair and buried
his face in his hands. He pulled a
locket from his breast, opened it, and
pressed his lips to the inside. Then
he held it up to us.

4 4 Look at it, ’ ’ he whispered. 4 4 Look
at her face and say what you can read
there. ’ ’

It was the miniature of a young
woman. She was strikingly beautiful,
even in this land of beautiful women;
but what held and fascinated the ob¬
server was the quality of innocence
and purity that seemed to shine
through the external features, as a
light in a lamp. The artist had done
his work surpassingly well. I stole a
glance at Brodsky; his brow had
cleared.

44 1 believe in her,” he said again.
4 4 And I think before the night has
gone your fears and doubts will have
been dispelled. Courage, friend. And
now let us have supper, for the phy¬
sical condition has a powerful reac¬
tion upon the spirits.”

I t was a mournful supper in the de¬
serted inn. Brodsky was at his
best. He kept us amused with count¬
less anecdotes of his own life. I had
never known how much he had under¬
gone, what he had seen, now tramping

through Europe as a penniless stu¬
dent, now taking a leading part in the
battle for Polish freedom; anon, im¬
prisoned in the underground dungeon
at St. Peter and St. Paul, escaping in
a workman’s clothes and working his
way to America as a sailor under the
noses of the Bussian Marine officers.
But, though once or twice our com¬
panion’s face lit up and he smiled
faintly, it was evident that he was al¬
most overwhelmed by the tragedy
that had come into his life.

No further reference was made to
the engagement of the evening, but
we sat there, -smoking and talking,
and listening to Brodsky, until ten
strokes rang out from die old-fash¬
ioned clock in the corner. Then, wi^i
a deep sigh, the young man rose and
led the way out into the darkness of
the fall evening. At the end of the
street the large bulk of the mansion
appeared, cutting off the view beyond
with its great mansard roof and out¬
buildings, of which the Sykes cot¬
tage seemed to form a part. Even
as we looked, a light went out sud¬
denly in a lower window, to reappear
shortly afterward immediately over¬
head. The master of the mansion had
retired to his room.

As we passed silently down the de¬
serted street I caught the faint
reflection from the light above the
door of the inn as it struck upon
some rounded, metallic thing which
the young man was fingering. It was
a pistol. On the way I contrived to
snatch a fleeting word with Brodsky.

“Doctor,” I said, “you are abet¬
ting a murder.”

“No,” he answered me, “I am sav¬
ing a woman’s name and her hus¬
band’s happiness.”

We halted at a side door and
waited. After quite an interval the
butler came out and admitted us. He
led the way on tiptoe, we following
with infinite precautions, along a cor¬
ridor, up some carpeted stairs, and
out upon the dimly lit circle of an

682

WEIRD TALES

old picture gallery, where genera¬
tions of the Sykes family looked
gravely down from their heavily
gilded frames. The sight aroused the
young man to a frenzy of passion.
This was the inheritance of which he
had been defrauded! I saw him
shake as with an ague, saw his fingers
tighten convulsively upon the handle
of his pistol; then I saw Brodsky’s
restraining arm encircle his shoulders
and steady him. The little drama
was enacted in perfect silence. We
crouched down at the edge of the
platform, below which we could see
the passages of the rambling old
structure radiating away on the three
sides as spokes of a wheel. And we
waited, shivering, there, none speak¬
ing, only gluing our eyes upon the
distant end of the corridor which led
toward the wing of the mansion
which Philip Sykes occupied. The
butler had slipped away, but John
had forgotten him.

Eleven o’clock boomed out from a
deep-sounding clock; the air grew
chilly. I shivered. I looked at
Brodsky., He was watching every
movement of his patient, his hand,
alert and sinuous, seemingly ready to
leap forth to restrain him from any
deed of rashness. But John was
oblivious to both of us also; he fin¬
gered his pistol and knelt there
watching, watching-

Crouching there, we three seemed
to have become actors in some horri¬
ble drama that was being enacted for
the benefit of those rows of silent
ghosts, those family ancestors of dead
and gone Sykes, looking out, starched
and bewigged, from their gold frames,
which were so faintly illuminated by
the dull light of the low gas jets that
the painted figures seemed to stand
out as in a stereoscope, to have the
verisimilitude of living men. I must
have become half-hypnotized by the
suspense of watching. My mind
slipped away from the work that was
at hand; I was living over my life in

other places, thinking of the past, of
the ambitions and aspirations with
which I had started out on my career,
of my strange meeting with Brodsky,
of a thousand things-

Suddenly I felt Brodsky’s fingers
^ tighten upon my sleeve. I glanced
along the distant corridor. My
heart bounded in my breast and
seemed to stand still. For there,
emerging from out of the gloom,
clothed in ^ misty garment, her head
covered with a filmy veil, was a
woman that glided toward us as no
human, waking being moves, the
eyes fixed and trancelike. For all the
dimness and distance I knew her. It
was the woman of the miniature.
Brodsky recognized her, too, and the
young man.

I saw his figure stiffen; every
muscle in his body became as taut as
steel. He crouched there, watching
her, upon his face an aspect of horror
and hatred terrible to witness. The
figure approached us; now it was
directly under us and had not seemed
to notice us. Suddenly his hand shot
out; I saw the gleam of the pistol.
Then, still more quickly, I saw Brod¬
sky’s arm dart forward, and an in¬
stant later the heavy report of the
discharge went echoing through the
half-empty house, arousing a thou¬
sand echoes among the rafters.

I was upon my feet and Brodsky
was pulling at my sleeve. “Follow
me, ’ ’ he cried. ‘ ‘ To the cottage! ’ ’

He dragged me after him, and the
young man followed us. I moved as
though in a dream, under Brodsky’s
compulsion; but, though we ran like
the wind, John Sykes easily out¬
stripped us. I knew what passion
winged his speed. Overhead we
heard noises and movement. Shouts
were borne after us.

“This way,” cried the doctor, as I
halted, confused, in the middle of the
winding galleries. He pulled me
toward the door. Another moment

THE TENTH COMMANDMENT

683

and we were outside, pressing the
yielding turf beneath our feet. We
ran around the house and darted
toward the cottage, John Sykes ahead
of us, the pistol still clenched in his
hand. From the right we heard the
sound of a man running. At the very
door of the cottage Philip Sykes
broke out upon us; and, as Philip
drew back in amazement, John leaped
at him, bearing him down upon the
threshold, striving to free his right
arm to gain pistol vantage. Philip
perceived the peril and fought des¬
perately for life; John’s hand was
upon his throat, his brother’s grasp
relaxed; another instant all would
have been over. But even at the mo¬
ment of his triumph he stopped
and staggered backward. For the
door had opened, and there, confront¬
ing us, fully attired, a lantern in her
hand, her eyes wide with suspense
and terror, was the lady of the minia¬
ture. And the three waited motion¬
less as figures carved out of stone, till
Brodsky stepped up and broke the
silence. He took the pistol from John
Sykes’ unresisting hand.

“Let us go in and talk over the
matter, ’ ’ he said.

I f tears are akin to laughter, trag¬
edy is surely akin to comedy. For
hou^s, as it seems to me now, the four
of them sat in the little cottage par¬
lor, laughing incoherently, listening
at first incredulously to the account
that Brodsky unfolded. For the
merest chance words let drop by John
Sykes during their first interview had
set him upon the track of his daring
hypothesis, which he had courageous¬
ly verified, even at the risk of murder.
Afterward they began to believe,
though I -am not sure that Philip
Sykes believes it yet; as for John, his
joy at the restoration of his confi¬
dence in the lady drowned all baser
emotions of rage or resentment. For,
whatever other explanation there
might have been, he knew that his

wife could not possibly have been in¬
side his brother’s house in person,
when she had met him at his own
door.

“I was not sure until the end that
my hypothesis was correct,” said
Brodsky. “But it was your state¬
ment of the sentimental regard which
Mrs. Sykes felt for the old mansion,
and her deep disappointment at the
loss of it, that put me upon the track.
Do you recollect the tenth command¬
ment, which begins: ‘Thou shalt not
covet thy neighbor’s house?’ Many
people have wondered at the inclusion
of so comparatively—as it seems—
venial a sin among those of theft and
murder.

“Yet, like most things, that com¬
mandment exists with very good rea¬
son, for undoubtedly the Great Law¬
giver was acquainted with the physi¬
cal results of spiritual things. There
was a ghost in the mansion.” He
turned to Mrs. Sykes. “Have you
not dreamed of it continually?” he
asked.

“Often and often,” she answered.

“You were the ghost,” said Brod¬
sky. ‘ ‘ It was you, who by the
strength of your longing, were night¬
ly transplanted there. You were
there in spirit, but not in body, when
we watched in the gallery. And had
that pistol bullet pierced your ghostly
form it would have killed you none
the less surely, so intimately asso¬
ciated are the body and that psychical
envelope which men miscall the soul,
which is the body of desires and emo¬
tions. And unless you can overcome
this longing, I confess I fear that you
will continue to haunt the mansion.”

“I shall haunt it no more,” replied
Mrs. Sykes, laughing. “My brother-
in-law was willing long ago to dispose
of it to my husband.”

“Indeed, I have been most anxious
to do so,” said Philip. “But my
brother, who has inherited the Sykes
temper, refused all overtures for

684

WEIRD TALES

reconciliation until your happy inter¬
vention this evening. But now I
shall insist upon his taking the place
off my hands upon any terms he will
accept, for I confess I am a practical
sort of man and don't want to be

troubled by ghosts, even when they
are the personal property of a very
charming and newly-discovered sis¬
ter-in-law.”

An Utterly Bizarre Story is

The Assault Upon
Miracle Castle

By J. M. HIATT

“TV^T EDIEVAL! ” 1 exclaime< *

VI to my friend and host,

-t-* -»■ Count Ramon de Nufiez, as
we surveyed his estate from the tall¬
est tower of his ancestral castle.
"Nothing could be more medieval,
even in Spain.”

Don Ramon smiled with pleasure,
for his hobby was the Middle Ages.
"I grant that there is little of the
modern in that landscape,” he re¬
plied.

We were in east central Spain, in
the province of Cuenca, the most
thinly populated province of the
most backward country in Europe.
From the castle, which sat on an emi¬
nence, we could see the barren, rocky
hill-land, rolling away to the horizon.
Below us lay a narrow valley, culti¬
vated, here and there, by methods as
old as the Romans. A road, created
by generation after generation of
men and beasts, wound from the val¬
ley up to the castle. To this trail's
exceeding roughness I could testify,
having come over it the preceding
evening in Don Ramon’s automobile.

"Pardon my compelling you to
view the countryside before break¬
fast,” continued the count, "but I
wished you to see it before the sun
makes the battlements too warm to
be comfortable. My ancestors estab¬
lished themselves here in 1177, when
Alfonso the Eighth wrested the prov¬
ince from the Moors. Milagro Castle
was long a fiercely contested spot on
the frontier, and more than one at¬
tack was broken before these walls. ”

"The hand of Time seems to have
rested lightly upon the fortress,” I
observed.

"Ah, Senor Hawthorne, it was a
ruin long before we were bom. The
edifice which you see was built nine
years ago, after I was lucky enough
to make a little money in the Argen¬
tine. Still, I flatter myself that this
is an exact reproduction - of the old
stronghold. If one of my forefathers
were to ride up the road, I doubt if
he could tell the difference until he
had passed the gates.”

"Not even then, perhaps,” said I,
recalling the heavy, rough-hewn fur-

THE ASSAULT UPON MIRACLE CASTLE

685

niture, the beautiful tapestries, and
the ancient armor and weapons which
filled the chambers below us.

“You are too hard on my poor
habitation,” my host responded,
laughing. “I admit that electricity
and the telephone are lacking, but
there are some conveniences here,
among them breakfast. Shall we go
down?”

We descended by means of several
winding staircases of stone and were
soon seated in the dining hall.

“Milagro,” I queried, over the re¬
past, “that is the Spanish for ‘mira¬
cle,’ isn’t it? A queer name, Miracle
Castle.”

‘ ‘ The place has been so titled since
1211, when the event occurred which
gave rise to the name. The incident
is the only thing of the supernatural
of which my castle can boast, for, I
regret to say, an appropriate ghost
has yet to show itself. If you like, I
shall read you the story, which the
chronicler has told better than I
can. ’ ’

After breakfast, I followed the
count to his study, where he found a
parchment manuscript, written in
Latin and with illuminated charac¬
ters, which had faded with age.

“In the fifty-third year of King
Alfonso, to whom may the saints
grant blessed rest,” translated Don
Ramon, “the Moors, again waxing
strong, began to fall upon the strong
places and villages of the Castilians
which were the nearest to them. The
cursed unbeliever, Mozaffar of Mur¬
cia, having been supplied by the
ameer, his master, with a numerous
band, both horse and foot, marched
swiftly upon the castle of Count
Guillermo de Nunez. Count Guiller¬
mo and the greater part of his fight¬
ing men were absent in the service of
the king, and mighty was the terror
among the people of the castle, and
mighty was the eagerness of the ene¬
mies of God, who thought themselves
sure of an easy victory. At this ex¬

ceeding peril, Dona Jacinta, the wife
of Count Guillermo, hastened with
her daughters to the chapel and im¬
plored the aid of St. James.

“The prayers of the pious are
strong, for, when the infidels were yet
distant from the gates, a whirlwind
came upon them, and they were never
seen more. Neither man nor beast of
them has since been discovered any¬
where, but all doubtless burn in hell,
whither the hand of Almighty God
has hurled them.

“Wherefore, it has been ordered
that the .place shall henceforward be
known as the Castle of the Miracle
and that offerings shall be sent yearly
to the shrine of Compostella, that
this great mercy of Heaven may
never be forgotten.”

“A pretty fable,” was my com¬
ment, “worthy to be placed beside
any of the tales of the reconquest. ’ ’

“I have often wondered if it is a
fable,” said the nobleman. Observ¬
ing my incredulous look, he went on,
“Don’t misunderstand me. I believe
I am as free from superstition as any
man. But, Senor Hawthorne, are
you not aware that, in our own time,
there have been instances where per¬
sons or objects have disappeared in
full sight of witnesses and in a man¬
ner which defies explanation? Ein¬
stein’s work has thrown some light on
the problem, and perhaps science may
eventually answer our questions.
One theory, often set forth, is that, as
we live in a universe of three dimen¬
sions, so there are other universes
based on different numbers of dimen¬
sions. They exist around us but in
planes invisible to us. Occasionally,
a part of one of these universes, how
or why no one can guess, coincides
temporarily with a spot on the earth.
Then take place those sudden exits
from our world to which I have re¬
ferred and the entrance of strange
beings and materials from out of the
unknown.

“Other hypotheses have been

WEIRD TALES

brought forward to explain these
same phenomena, but they involve too
much mathematics and physics for
me to go into them.

“Now, it is not impossible that
something of this sort happened to
the assailants of Milagro, although
one must admit that there is no other
case on record where so large a num¬
ber of persons disappeared at one
time.”

“Brr,” I said, feigning a shudder,
“you give me an uneasy feeling. I
shouldn’t care to fly off into another
dimension.”

“Don’t worry,” laughed'Don Ra¬
mon. “By the laws of probability,
there is scarcely more danger that
such will be your fate than that you
will be knocked on the head by a me¬
teor.”

T he conversation had drifted into
other matters, when we were in¬
terrupted by one of the servants.

“Senor,” said the man, addressing
the count in Spanish, “there is a
crowd coming up the road.”

“Tourists, likely, though—thank
God!—this section is rarely troubled
by the creatures.”

“The senor may be right, but,
from the dust they are making, there
must be rather more of them than I
had judged there were people in—
begging the senor’s pardon—in all
this miserable province. ’ ’

“Bah, Pablo! You are fresh from
Madrid and have doubtless mistaken
a shepherd and his flock for a crowd.
Learn to use your eyes to better ad¬
vantage and remember that, if you do
not like the province, I am not inter¬
ested in the fact.”

I had gone to a window and now
interrupted the dialogue. “The man
is right,” I said. “I can make out a
number of people and horses, about
two miles distant, I should judge.”

Don Ramon picked up a pair of
field-glasses and stepped to the win¬
dow. “Caracoles!” he ejaculated.

after a long look. “Take the binocu¬
lars, Senor Hawthorne, and see what
you make of it.”

I moved the glasses along the long
array which was winding up the val¬
ley. Horsemen, in steel caps and
shirts of mail and carrying shields,
swords, lances, and bows, moved at
the front and rear of the column and
galloped here and there along the
flanks. Infantry and pack-animals
trudged in the center. Amidst the
baggage I counted fourteen long and
heavy ladders. Toward the front was
carried a black flag, bearing a red de¬
sign. The party must have numbered
six or seven hundred men, many of
whom were negroes.

“Were we anywhere near Holly¬
wood, the capital of filmdom, ’ ’ I ven¬
tured at last, “such a sight would not

be difficult to explain; but here-!

Perhaps some of your friends in Ma¬
drid, knowing your enthusiasm for
things medieval, have arranged a pa¬
geant to surprize you. They must
have felt rich, if they hired that mul¬
titude.”

“And, Senor Hawthorne, the mum¬
mers must have camped in the hills
last night, for lodgings could not be
found for them within a radius of
forty miles. Let us go up where we
can get a better view of this. Pablo,
bring another pair of glasses, then
keep at hand, for I may want you. ’ ’

We climbed a watch-tower and
were soon straining our eyes through
the binoculars.

A few hundred yards ahead of the
advancing throng, a man with an ox¬
cart had halted beside the road and
was waiting excitedly for the parade
to pass: Half a dozen riders, urging
their mounts to a gallop, came rapid¬
ly upon him. Suddenly the peasant
started to, run, but they overtook him
and smote off his head as he ran. I
saw the frightful gush of blood and
heard the yells of the horsemen.

“Some pageant!” I gasped.

From Don Ramon burst a savage

THE ASSAULT UPON MIRACLE CASTLE

687

command. “Pablo, call all the serv¬
ants together in the courtyard, and be
quick, if you value your life!”

In a moment some twenty men had
assembled in the designated spot, and
Don Ramon, gesturing with a revol¬
ver which had appeared from no¬
where, was issuing orders.

“Pedro and Pablo, see that both
gates are closed. Then to the kitchen
and do as Fernando tells you. Run,
now! Fernando, you and the kitchen-
boy carry all the food you can to the
keep and don’t forget a case of wine.
Smith, to the stables and take Isabella
and Ligero to the keep. Yes, lead
them into the rooms! Leave the other
horses. Take the dogs to the keep
also. The rest of you, follow me!”

We dashed to the gun-room, where
the count began to distribute rifles
and pistols. I was sent to the tower
over the study. “Don’t show much
of your person,” was the final warn¬
ing.

From my post I saw that the men
on foot were still distant but that a
swarm of riders was now tearing up
the slope. As they neared the castle,
they swung to the side and began to
ride along under the walls, uttering
savage cries. I was staring in amaze¬
ment, when an arrow whizzing past
my ear caused me to duck for cover.
Angrily, I aimed through an archer’s
loophole and fired without success at
a swiftly moving target. Trying
again, I bowled a man from his sad¬
dle. Shafts were splintering against
the stonework. Above the shouting,
shots rang out. So great was the up¬
roar and such the confusion in my
own mind that I scarcely know what
took place during those minutes.

At length a hand fell on my shoul¬
der. I turned and saw Don Ramon.

“To the keep,” he commanded.
“The scaling parties will soon be
here, and we are too few to hold the
outer works. ’ ’

“In God’s name,” I cried, as I

followed him downstairs, “who are
these people?”

‘ ‘ A proof of my contentions, Scnor
Hawthorne. These are the vanished
Moors of the story.”

“Impossible! That crew, if they
ever existed, have been dead for cen¬
turies, while these are no ghosts, but
living men.”

“A thousand years in our universe
might occupy but the fraction of a
second in one of the other dimen¬
sions, and it is obvious that our call¬
ers do not consider themselves dead.
If, as I believe, the miracle has been
reversed and the old assailants of the
place have come back in the way they
went, it is possible that they are not
conscious of any interim but still con¬
sider themselves good Mohammedan
warriors of the year 1211.”

W e had now arrived at the keep,
a massive tower over eighty feet
in height, which rose from the court¬
yard in the center of the castle.
Standing apart, it overlooked the cir¬
cle of lower buildings and defenses
and was designed as the last refuge of
the garrison. It served Don Ramon
as a sort of museum, in which were
stored many antiquities. We passed
through its pointed archway, and the
heavy door was closed and barri¬
caded. Here were gathered the
count’s servants, his dogs and favor¬
ite horses, food, drink, and ammuni¬
tion.

“Better dress for the reception,”
grinned my host, pointing to several
suits of armor. “These may help to
keep out arrows.”

I fumbled into a helmet and cui¬
rass, but the master of Milagro clad
himself from head to foot in steel, ex¬
hibiting a skill in so doing that made
me suspect that he had often stolen
up here to perform the feat. With
his eyes flashing from excitement, he
looked for all the world like one of
the old-time cavaliers of Spain.
“What are you going to do with

688

WEIRD TALES

that thing ? ” I asked, for the don had
picked up a crossbow and was turn¬
ing the crank which set the weapon.

He blushed and closed his vizor.
"There aren’t enough guns to go
around, and I have always wanted to
shoot one of these instruments.”

“I’ll bet it won’t be the first time,’’
I shot back.

At the instant a servant ran up.
"Pepe is not with us!” cried the
fellow. "I haven’t seen him all
morning! ’ ’

"Go out and find him,” was the
order.

"But, Senor, they are battering on
the gates, and there is already a
swarm on the roofs!”

"Too late, then!”

From a loophole I saw that, in sev¬
eral places, armed men were clamber¬
ing over the outer battlements.

"You dare assail my castle, Allah-
howling dogs!” thundered Don Ra¬
mon. "Back to the other world, you
sons of Satan!”

So saying, he discharged his cross¬
bow; the bolt struck through a war¬
rior and sent him rolling down a
roof to fall clanging upon the court¬
yard. A hot fire burst from the keep,
but the shooters were far from marks¬
men and greatly excited. As targets
multiplied, hits grew more plentiful.
The effect of firearms seemed to
amaze our antagonists, but, contrary
to my expectations, it only aroused
them to greater activity. Arrows be¬
gan to reply to our bullets and to the
bolts of Don Ramon. A formidable
force was gaining a foothold in the
castle.

Suddenly the main gate gave way
or was opened from within, and a
flood of fanatical fighters swept into
the courtyard. A bearded horseman,
flourishing a long, curved sword and
clad in golden armor, directed the
mob.. With a heavy beam they began
to batter the door of our stronghold.
Ladders were being brought to set
against the lower windows.

A heavy object fell past my sta¬
tion and smashed on the pavement
below. It was a carved cabinet, un¬
der the wreckage of which now lay
several broken forms. The men at
the top of the keep were throwing
down Don Ramon’s most cherished
possessions.

"This is desperate,” screamed the
count at my elbow, but whether he
meant our situation or the despoil¬
ment of his museum, I know not.

Furiously he cranked his crossbow,
leveled, and let fly. The leader on
horseback sagged and fell from his
saddle, his gold-covered breastplate
useless against the short, iron bolt,
which had almost the force of a bul¬
let. At the death of the Moor, the
attack grew more frenzied than ever.

The gun-barrel scorched my fingers.
Pablo lay near me with a shaft
through his brain. The fire of the de¬
fense grew weaker and weaker, as
the archers killed the riflemen. The
door would soon splinter under the
blows of the ram. Climbers were al¬
ready mounting, holding their shields
above their heads.

Suddenly an automobile siren
pierced the tumult, and a big car
tore out of one of the buildings. At
the wheel was a fellow, who, as I
learned later, was the missing Pepe,
his face convulsed with terror.. He
had sneaked away from his duties to
take a siesta in the garage and had
failed to awake till die horde broke
into the castle. To save his life, he
made a desperate break for the gate¬
way, but his path was so packed with
humanity that he abandoned the de¬
sign. Spinning the wheel this way
and that, with horn screaming and
cut-out open, the frantic driver tore
round and round the courtyard.
Dozens, too appalled to flee, were run
down. A few ill-aimed arrows were
the sole resistance to the monster.
The stampede which began at the
car’s first appearance lasted until all
of the enemy who could run were in

THE ASSAULT UPON MIRACLE CASTLE

•wild flight down the hillside. Pepe
finished his work by hurling the ve¬
hicle through a stone wall into the
kitchen.

Ascending to the top of the tower,
I watched the retreat. My brain was
beginning to clear, and I could hardly
believe that what had happened was
true, much less the count’s explana¬
tion of it.

Suddenly a whirlwind passed along
beside the fugitives. It was a small
twister, such as might carry away a

handkerchief or a straw hat, but-

I rubbed my eyes. There lay the
same barren and deserted landscape
upon which I had looked that morn¬
ing. The multitude had vanished.

Hastening to the courtyard, I
found Don Ramon.

“They’re gone,” I cried, “swal¬
lowed up, every last one of them!”

He showed but little interest.
“Senor Hawthorne,” he said, “to¬
day I have lost a Byzantine cabinet of
the Tenth Century, and other treas¬
ures of which I can not bear to
think.”

‘ ‘ To say nothing of half your
household and an automobile,” was
my rejoinder, “but you have cer¬
tainly added to your stock of medi¬
eval weapons. There is enough Sara¬
cen armor lying around to fill a doz¬
en castles.”

My host shook his head. “Crude,
common stuff, all of it, except one fine
coat of gold-plated mail, which I un¬
happily perforated.”

S OON afterward I left Milagro Cas¬
tle, accompanied by the surviving
servants, who swore they would no
longer remain in that place. We fol¬
lowed a precipitous path over the
hills, for none of us had any confi¬
dence in the regular road. Perhaps
it still led into another universe!

The other day a letter came from
Don Ramon, saying that he had cured
a number of the wounded warriors,
had trained them as servants, and
had taught them Spanish. He in¬
vited me to come and converse with
some men of the Thirteenth Century.
The next time I go to Europe, I may
accept his invitation.

FOR CLYTIE

By BINNY KORAS

There’s a night somewhere
With moon of beryl hue,

Red stars, xanthic stars, jet stars, too,
In a bowl of livid blue—

A night that we could revel in
As puppy foxes do.

Low, weird whisperings,

An odor dank and cool,

Velvet moths with pansy wings,

A tarnished copper* pool—

Where all the shades go reveling,

The ghost of every fool.

Here Are the Closing Chapters of

ACROSS SPACE

A Three-part Serial

By EDMOND HAMILTON

The Story So Far

A great red ray of light stabs across space to¬
ward Mars..from the crater of Kano Kao vol¬
cano on Easter Island, carrying with it the mag¬
netic force of Earth’s northern magnetic pole
against the southern magnetic pole of Mars. The
red planet is pulled from its orbit and hurtles
straight toward Earth.

Dr. Whitley and Professor Allan try ■*--

of the e

.... captured by the

Mars ^who live in the crater

city in the bowels of the Earth. There they learn
the details of the Martians’ scheme from Dr. Hol¬
land, who has been captured years before. The
captives plan to escape from their guards
(strange, mechanically constructed creatures cre¬
ated by the bat-winged Martians), in a desperate
attempt to save the Earth. If they fail—and the

few days the atmosphere of Mars will touch that
of Earth, and the world will be overrun by Mar¬
tians flying from their planet to Earth, armed
with a crumbling ray to destroy humanity.

14

I WAS awakened by a slight
shaking of my shoulder, and
opened my eyes to see that both
Whitley and Holland were sitting be¬
side me, earnestly regarding me.
When he saw that I was awake, Whit¬
ley spoke in a low whisper.

“Holland has a plan by which we
can get out of here,’’ he told me,
“and it sounds like a good one to me.
But I will let him tell you.” And
he motioned to his friend.

All attention now, I listened to
Holland’s idea, a scheme that was so
daring that it seemed to leave me
breathless.

“It is simple enough,” he said,
“but I think we three can swing it.
As I told you, these slave-monsfers,
like the two that guard us, are con¬
trolled entirely by telepathy, and
600

never receive a spoken command.
They receive orders from any dis¬
tance on thought-waves from their
masters, and their brains retain those
orders, and act on them, until they
are erased by new ones, from those
same masters. Now I have long ex¬
perimented with them, throwing com¬
mands at them in my thoughts, and
have found that they respond a little,
though very little.

“The reason I can’t make them
obey my orders totally is simply that
my own power of telepathy is far
beneath that of the Martians, and so
the orders I give them are too weak
to cause them to obey. Of course, the
Martians don’t know that I, or you
either, have any power or conception
of telepathy at all, for if they did
they would certainly never leave us
in the sole care of these creatures.

“So this is my plan. If we all
three concentrate on our two guards,
who are somewhere in this building,
and order them, by telepathy, to come
and release us, I think that our
accumulated thought-power will be
enough to impress their brains with
this order, and overrule the order
given them by the Martians, to keep
us confined. If we can just get them
to open the door for us, you two can
try to make your way to the tube
down which you came, and get up to
the crater. Then there is a million
to one chance, as I said, that you can
do something there to save the
Earth.

ACROSS SPACE

“My idea is to wait until an hour
before midnight, for then all of the
Martians are going through their
ceremonies in the great temple, and
every one of them is in the temple at
that time, so they will not be able to
molest you, going through the city to
the tube entrance. In the meantime,
I will try to hold our two guards
here by my command, thus giving
you a chance to escape.’’

“But we can’t leave you here!”
both Whitley and I cried, nor would
we consent to try his plan until he
promised to let us take him with us.
At last he gave in, and we planned to
carry him to the tube with us.

It was then 7 o’clock in the eve¬
ning, just twilight in the world above,
but we knew the time only by our
watches, for here it was day, as al¬
ways. The hours before 11 I spent in
desultory fashion, and regretted as I
watched* Whitley carefully cleaning
his automatic, that my own had been
lost as I was carried down into the
crater. Why the Martians had not
taken the weapon from him, I did not
understand, but supposed that they
had not conceived us as being able
to make and use any very dangerous
weapon. I was partly consoled for
the loss of my pistol, though, when
Holland produced from under his
clothing two long, wicked-looking
knives of Martian manufacture,
which he said he had concealed for a
long time. With one of these in my
belt I felt armed, at least.

Slowly, dragging ever more slowly,
the hours passed by, until it was a
few minutes after 11 and we were
listening intently for the chanting in
the temple which would indicate that
the Martians had gathered there, be¬
fore ascending above.

Finally it. came, a low, solemn
chant that sounded through the dead
city like a dirge, the same as that
which we had heard in the crater, the
deep, mournful hymn of the last few
thousand of a mighty race. We could

still hear outside the sound of the
tireless slave-creatures going to and
fro, but there was no sound of flap¬
ping wings, and we knew that the
time for the trial of our mad plan
had come.

So, at Holland’s whispered direc¬
tions, we sat and silently concentrated
our minds on the two creatures who
guarded us, somewhere in the build¬
ing. We sent the same message to
them over and over, hurling it out in
powerful mind-waves, ordering them
to come and open the door, to release
us. Yet no response came after five
minutes of- steady concentration, and
we broke down and spoke to each
other in despair.

But Holland kept at us, and said,
“Don’t let a single thing get into
your mind but the one thought, the
one order that, they are to release us.
And when we get, out, if we do get
out, for dod’s sake hold that thought
in your mind as long as we are down
here, for as soon as we stop sending
them the order to let us go where we
want, that moment the order of the
Martians will assert itself in their
minds and we shall have them rush¬
ing after us at once.”

So we again began our concentra¬
tion, and though the minutes seemed
flying now, that had dragged before,
we let none of our despair creep into
our thoughts but focused our minds
on the two things that guarded us,
bidding them to come and open the
door, to let us go.

I saw the sweat standing out on
Whitley’s forehead, and just as I
thought that we all must break under
the enormous strain we were undergo¬
ing we heard a soft pattering of feet
at the farther end of the corridor,
slowly approaching us. The things
were coming at our order!

When we realized that, exultation
rushed over us, and we bent all our
mental force on the two, making our
order imperious, impatient, com¬
manding! And they came nearer

692

WEIRD TALES

and nearer until they were standing
outside the door, when we instantly
focused all our thoughts on them with
the message that they must open the
door and let us depart from the
building.

For a moment, my heart was in my
throat, then there was a grating
sound as the bar was lifted, and the
door swung open. At a sign from
Holland, we reached and picked him
from the floor, and carrying him be¬
tween us, passed out the door, being
careful to utter no sound and to keep
our thoughts focused on the two mon¬
strous guards, who stood aside from
the open door.

With unsure, hesitating move¬
ments, the two things moved out of
our path and allowed us to proceed
down the corridor. We could still
hear the chanting from the temple,
but we knew that we had but little
time left if we were to ascend to the
crater before the Martians. At the
point where we left the corridor and
stepped into the street outside, we al¬
most met disaster, for Whitley and I
stumbled on the sill of the entrance
and during the moment that we
struggled to regain our balance, we
completely forgot the two things be¬
hind us.

Instantly there was a flashing
movement in the corridor, and a
swift sound of padding feet as they
raced down toward us! But when
only a few feet away, they stopped,
and seemed to regard us in a puzzled
manner, unsure, perplexed. At the
very last second we had thrown out
our* thought-command for them to
halt, but it had been a close call. We
knew now why Holland had warned
us to keep our thoughts on the crea¬
tures until we had completely left
this place.

So, carrying Holland up with us,-
we proceeded up the long street, still
with our minds focused on the two
guards in the building behind, bid¬
ding them stay there. We spoke no

word as we walked along, and I re¬
gretted that we had not locked the
things in our own cell, then conjec¬
tured that possibly Holland had not
suggested it because of their own tele¬
pathic powers, by which they might
have sent some warning to their mas¬
ters of our escape. With a start, I
realized that I was allowing my
thoughts to wander, and again cen¬
tered them on our unspoken com¬
mand to our late guards.

All the way through the city we
saw not one Martian, and it was evi¬
dent that even as Holland had said,
they were gathered in the temple for
their own ceremonies. The chanting
had ceased now, and I knew that it
must be almost half past 11, leaving
us less than a half-hour to get to the
crater before the Martians.

As before, there were many of the
slave creatures in the streets, but
none offered to stop us, or even
seemed to notice us. They seemed
entirely unaware of our presence, for
each had its own task to do, im¬
planted in its brain by its Martian
master, and each could perceive only
its own particular business. After
all, specialization has its drawbacks.
- And now the long building in
which lay the tube’s entrance came
into view, and we hurried toward it,
our hearts beating high with the suc¬
cess we had already achieved.

T here was no one at all in the
building, and I made directly for
the switch in the wall. When I
pressed it, the circle of the wall’s
surface slid back, revealing behind it
the long, hollow cylinder. It was the
same down which we had come, for I
had noticed that it was the nearest
to the door of the building. How
many of the tubes they had in opera¬
tion, I did not know, but all along the
long, low wall I saw the same kind of
switches inset, doubtless controlling
similar cylinders.

As we were just about to enter the

ACROSS SPACE

cylinder, Holland pointed to a comer
of the room and said, “We must have
three of those before we go up. They
may save us at the top.”

I looked in the direction he pointed
and saw only a number of loose gar¬
ments of a pale yellow material that
were hanging on hooks in the wall.
At my questioning look, Holland said,

* ‘ They are really suits of armor,
made by the Science Council for the
protection of the guards of the disk.
They will turn any kind of ray, and
without them we have no chance of
getting into the switch-box above.
See, they are a complete covering.”

He extended one to show us the
hood that fell over the face, and the
way in which the robe buttoned to
protect all of the body, though they
were intended for the winged Mar¬
tians and were far too roomy for us.

I hastily grasped three of them and
we were reaching down to pick up
Holland from the floor, when we
heard a sound that sent a chill
through our hearts. What was that,
that soft, racing pattering that
seemed to be rushing up the street
outside, toward us?

There was a sudden wail from
Holland. “The slave-monsters!” he
cried. “We forgot them and they’re
coming.” Then, as I made to pick
him up and rush for the cylinder,
“Too late!” he cried.

I had just time to draw my knife
when the two creatures appeared in
the doorway and rushed straight at
us. I was thrown toward one side of
the room by the impact of one of
them hitting me, then, as I rolled
about in its powerful grasp, I stabbed
out savagely with the knife, plunging
the long blade into the slimy body
time after time.

Yet it seemed unaffected and it
whirled me about the room as a
child would a toy, and I had a mo¬
mentary glimpse of Whitley, with
arms and legs clasped around the
other thing and stabbing it repeated¬

ly in the back with the knife Hol¬
land had thrown to him, while the
creature squirmed and tore under
him with tremendous force.

I heard Holland crying, “Stab at
the black spot!” But before I could
again rdiise my blade it had been
jerked out of my hand by a sudden
blow on the arm and I rolled over
on the floor with the monster, weap¬
onless. The smooth, powerful arms
were being coiled around my neck,
and my frantic struggles were grow¬
ing less, for I was being slowly
choked to death. I heard a sudden
savage yell from Holland, and the
next instant the thing that held me
gave a convulsive movement, while
the limbs that were choking me loos¬
ened. I heard the thud of soft flesh
hurled against the wall, then stag¬
gered to my feet and looked about me
in horror.

A few yards away sat Dr. Whitley,
his knife buried to the hilt in the oval
dark spot of one of the monsters,
which lay motionless -beside him.
And near by was the one I had strug¬
gled with, with a great gash in that
same spot, and my knife lying near
by. And Holland was lying crum¬
pled up in one comer of the room,
where that last tremendous convul¬
sion of the thing that was choking
me had hurled him, when he stabbed
it in its only vulnerable spot, the seat
of its queer intelligence.

We dropped beside him, and he
opened his eyes slowly, then smiled.
“The end for me,” he said, still
smiling. Then, seeing the tears that
welled up in my eyes, he said, “Don’t
cry, lad; do you think I wanted to
live the way I am? Go on, go on up
to the crater! Strike back from the
disk-”

His voice stopped, with a sudden
intake of breath, and he slumped
down and lay silent. Across his body
Whitley and I stared at each other
and I saw the tears in my own eyes
reflected in his. Yet he was the first

694

WEIRD TALES

of us two to rouse himself to what
lay before us.

“We must hide these before we
go, ’ ’ he said, motioning to the bodies
that lay around us.

So we gathered together -the three
bodies, and taking them outside the
building, laid them on the farther
side of the edifice, so that they would
not be noticed by anyone entering the
building. Already it was twenty
minutes to 12, and I wondered if we
had time to do anything, even if we
could win to the crater’s bottom.

Hastily we entered the cylinder, not
forgetting the yellow robes which had
brought disaster on us, and once se¬
cure in two of the swinging seats, I
gingerly pressed the studs as Hol¬
land had instructed us, snapping
shut the circle of wall behind us and
leaving us in darkness once more.
Another stud pressed, and the cylin¬
der tilted again to. a steep slant, and
when I snapped open the last switch,
we pressed down against our seats
with tremendous force, while all
around the cylinder rose the hum¬
ming shriek of wind we had noticed
when we descended. As we rocketed
up at unthinkable speed, I wondered
if the cylinder stopped automatically
when it reached the end of the tube,
then concluded that it must have been
so constructed, since there was no
gage or anything else in the cylinder
to tell how near it was to the end.

I saw the radium dial of Dr. Whit¬
ley’s watch glowing in the darkness,
and noted that it lacked but fifteen
minutes of midnight, and from that I
judged that we must be very near
the surface, as it had taken us but
five minutes to descend before, and we
had already been in the tube almost
that long. My judgment was correct,
too, for even as I saw the little illu¬
minated circle of the watch vanish,
as he closed it, the humming wail
outside diminished in volume to a
whisper and finally died, and the cyl¬

inder came softly to rest in a horizon¬
tal position.

Instantly I had the end of it
opened, and we stepped out into the.
same building we had entered' on our
trip down. Striding to the open
door, we both stood for a single mo¬
ment surveying the beauty of the
night, a beauty a thousand times in¬
tensified to us by our hours of im¬
prisonment in the underworld.

T he stars above were blazing in all
their tropical splendor, but they
were dimmed to tiny sparks by the
immense blood-red disk of Mars, di¬
rectly above our heads, a disk that
was as large as the full moon’s, a tre¬
mendous crimson shield that was
tipped at each of its ends by a circle
of white, the realms of ice that cover
the poles of Mars. Certainly in the
twenty-four hours we had been un¬
derground the planet had increased
tremendously in size, and I realized
that it must have been falling toward
us with even greater speed than the
astronomers had calculated.

For only a second we gazed at it,
then, clumsily wrapping ourselves in
two of the yellow robes, we looped the
hoods over our faces, and stole out
toward the disk, seeing everything
about us but dimly in the lurid light,
and through the half-transparent ma¬
terial of the robes’ hoods.

We could see no living thing as we
stealthily made our way to the disk,
and evidently all of the Martians
were still collected in the temple far
below, but it lacked but ten minutes
of midnight, and I knew that at al¬
most any second they would be
streaming up the tubes toward the
crater. And it would be short shrift
for us, then.

We hurried swiftly across the
crater, until we stood in the shadow
of a small building, near the pillar
that upheld the square switchbox.
From the slots and openings of that
box, light streamed out, and ever and

ACROSS SPACE

695

again the light was blocked by the
two guardians inside crossing the
openings. The globe on top of the
box was not illumined, and we could
see but little of the crater’s surface.

It was now or never, though, so
with his pistol ready Dr. Whitley
walked swiftly toward the pillar and
I followed, with knife clutched tight¬
ly in my hand. The hooks set in the
pillar’s sides were close enough to¬
gether so that we could easily use
them to climb up to the box at the
top, and we started up the side, Whit¬
ley leading. Up and up we climbed,
a prayer in our hearts, and were
half-way up to the switchbox when a
square section of the floor of that
structure was suddenly jerked aside
and a thin, cruel face looked down at
us.

For a moment, I think, the Mar¬
tian who looked down on us must
have thought us two of his own kind,
muffled up in the robes as we were,
and while he hesitated, we had come
to within ten feet of the box’s floor.
Then he disappeared for a moment,
and jerked back into view with a long
metal tube that he pointed directly
at us.

A blinding blue light sprang from
the tube’s end toward us, and strik¬
ing us, flowed over our garments like
water over a raincoat. Had it not
been for the yellow robes, we had
been crumbled to a white smear of
powder in an instant; but wrapDed in
them, we never felt the deadly ray.
Before the Martian who held the tube
could move back from the opening,
Whitley’s automatic barked, and the
creature slumped back into the
switchbox with a bullet in his head.

Surmounting the last few hooks in
the pillar, Whitley pulled himself up
through the opening, and as I leaped
after him I saw him close in battle
with the other Martian. I wondered
why he did not use the pistol on the
creature, but a flashing glimpse of the
intricate switchboards and machinery

about us told me that he feared to fire
lest his bullet loose some of the tre¬
mendous forces that were centered in
this spot.

As he tossed back and forth in the
little room with the Martian, I
sprang behind and sank my knife
deeu between the creature’s shoul¬
ders, and was instantly knocked to
one side by the wild beating of the
thing’s great wings, that flapped for
a moment convulsively as the crea¬
ture fell in his death throes. Stand¬
ing over the two dead Martians, we
looked dumbly at each other, wild
and disheveled, then turned to an ex¬
amination of the apparatus that lined
the sides of the little room.

From the center of the floor rose
two thick cables, covered with a
smooth, black insulation, that led to
and disappeared behind a square
switchboard on one side of the room.
In the very center of this board were
two large round knobs, each the size
of a small orange, one of a vivid red
color and the other bright green..

Whitley examined these closely,
and said, ‘ ‘ There is no doubt but that
these are the switches that control
the two rays. You remember what
Holland said, the attractive ray is red
and the repellent ray is green. I
take it that the ray is turned on by
pulling the knob out toward one, as
they don’t seem to move in any other
direction. The farther the knob is
pulled out, the more powerful the ray
sent out. At least I would think so. ’ ’

“But the time!” I cried. “How
will we know when to send out the
green ray? It can only be shot out
at the exact moment when Mars’
south pole is crossing its path.”

“The bell, the bell,” he countered.
“Didn’t you hear Holland say that
the third stroke of the bell is the ex¬
act instant when the ray is to be
turned on? And those bell-notes are
sounded by other Martians, on the
other side of the disk.”

“I remember now,” I told him;

696

WEIRD TALES

“yet what of the Martians while we
are sending out the green ray ? Sure¬
ly they won't stand by and see us
undo all their work without inter¬
fering? And they will be here al¬
most any moment now! ’ ’

He watched me for a second with¬
out answering. “There is our
stumbling block, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ and only
you can overcome it, Allan.”

“I!” was my astonished exclama¬
tion. “What can I do?”

He explained swiftly. “If you
could get to the top of the crater, by
means of that big crack in the wall
you mentioned, you could get down to
the plane and fly back over the
crater. I can send out the green ray
at the proper time, and then I am
sure that I can stand off the Mar¬
tians for a time, at least. I have this,
you know,” and he gestured to the
metal tube on the floor, the container
of the crumbling ray.

“At least I feel that I can hold
them off until you and Rider can fly
back over the crater, when you can
drop enough bombs on the disk to put
it out of commission. They don’t
seem to know much of high explosive
and its effects, and I think that I
could use their moment of panic to
descend from this box and get to the
crater’s top. Then we can do our
best to seal the entrances of the tubes
with high explosives, and at the
worst, we can leave the island and
come back with aid to do it.”

I protested that I would not leave
him, but the force of his reasoning
overcame my objections, and I pre¬
pared to go, unwillingly enough. He
scribbled a few words on a sheet torn
from his note-book, then folded it and
handed it to me, asking me to give it
to the pilot, and I thrust it into my
pocket.

Stepping over the dead Martians,
I lowered myself through the opening
in the floor, but when I was half-way
through the opening, I stopped and
extended a hand to Whitley, who

shook it in a silent grasp. No words
we said, but all the way down the
pillar I could see his gentle face
above, watching my progress. As I
stepped to the ground, he waved his
hand in a gesture of good-will and
farewell, and then snapped shut the
opening in the floor, evidently turn¬
ing his attention to the things in the
switchbox. And immediately I
started to run across the surface of
the crater toward the crack in its
wall, expecting every moment to
hear the sound of the Martians
emerging from beneath, for it was al¬
most midnight.

15

A cross the great crater I ran, and
sobbed with relief when I reached
its eastern wall. Along that wall I
raced, until I stood at the lower end
of a crack I had noticed, a colossal
slanting crevice that reached to the
very top of the volcanic pit. I was
just starting up this, when the globe
of blue light on top of thfe switchbox
flashed out, illumining the crater with
its thin wavering light. I knew that
Whitley had turned it on, and I knew
too that it was a sign that the Mar¬
tians had reached the crater from
their world far beneath, so I prayed
that they might not notice me as I
scrambled up the giant crack.

Up I went, clambering, climbing,
bruising myself on the sharp lava,
and I was half-way up the crater’s
wall before the first bell-note rang
out. It rolled up toward me in a
thick wave of beating sound, and I
half stopped for a second, to look
behind.

The Martians were clustered thick¬
ly around the great disk, and I saw
that they were evidently contemplat¬
ing the huge, crimson planet that
hung directly above. I glanced at it
too, as I clawed my way upward, and
in my heart prayed that Holland
had been right in estimating the

ACROSS SPACE

697

power of the green ray to throw the
planet back.

Again the bell sounded, and by
now I was very near the volcano’s
top, though it was hard for me to
judge my position. The chanting be¬
gan, swelled out, and died away, and
as it began again, my hands gripped
the very top edge of the crater’s wall,
and I pulled myself up and lay for a
minute, exhausted and breathless.

The third note of the great bell
clanged, and I turned swiftly toward
the crater, just in time to see a blind¬
ing shaft of green light stab out from
the disk’s surface into the zenith, a
column of emerald fire that was the
essence of all green, as the red ray
had been the seeming essence of that
color. It was the defiance, the an¬
swer, of Dr. Whitley! And of the
Earth!

There was no triumphant chanting
now! A loud humming reached my
ears, as of a hive of bees disturbed,
angry, menacing. I could see the
crowds of Martians swarming wildly
about the pillar and the box it sup¬
ported. As a number of them'began
to climb up the pillar, the blue ray of
death flashed out from inside the
box and cut a wide swath through
their numbers, reducing those it
touched to white powder in an in¬
stant !

* I saw, too, why the hooks on the
pillar had been used to enter the box,
instead of the Martians’ wings, for
several of the Martians who flew up
toward the box ventured too close to
the disk, and were instantly flashed
into nothing by the green ray, the
awful concentrated power of Earth’s
southern pole!

I looked up at Mars and then
shouted aloud with exultation, for on
its white-tipped southern pole a tiny
spot of brilliant green stood out like
a dazzling emerald. Another glance
at the hordes of Martians swarming
about the pillar, and I remembered
my own mission and turned and sped

down the volcano’s slope toward the
shore. I was half-way down the slope
when the green ray snapped out be¬
hind me.

But I knew that its work was done!
Dr. Whitley had flung the full force
of the repellent ray against the near¬
ing planet, and if we could destroy
the disk now, there would be no dan¬
ger of the Martians attracting it
again with the opposite ray.

As I ran I could still hear the an¬
gry humming from the crater, and 1
hoped fervently that we could get
back to the volcano in the plane soon
enough to save Dr. Whitley.

I had almost reached the volcano’s
bottom when a mighty convulsion
shook the whole island to its founda¬
tions, throwing me violently to the
ground, while a wave of scorching,
stifling heat rolled down over me
from the crater above.

I jumped to my feet and looked
behind me, then stood petrified by the
sight that met my eyes. For a vast
fountain of green and crimson fire
seemed to be shooting up from the
crater’s interior, whirling, brilliant
rays whose electric force I could feel
even where I stood, and whose in¬
tense heat made it almost impossible
for me to breathe.

A moment the crater continued
thus, a whirlpool of released electric¬
ity, then the whole sides, the great
walls of the crater crashed down into
it, burying all in it under thousands
of tons of rock. And I knew what
had happened! I knew!

Whitley had turned on both the
attractive and repellent rays at the
same time, and even as Holland had
predicted, the effect of that concen¬
tration of all Earth’s magnetic
power in one spot, that colossal mag¬
netic short-circuit, had been to snuff
out all life in the crater like a moth
in a candle, and to rend the volcano
itself like an ant-hill.

I remembered the note Whitley had
given me, and I opened and read it

WEIRD TALES

by the lurid red light of the planet
above, and even as I had expected, it
was written for me, and not the pilot.

“Dear Allan,” ran the hastily
scribbled words, “when you read this
I shall not be living, for I have re¬
solved to wipe out these Martians
once and for all in the way Holland
suggested, for if I do not, they will
surely continue to plot against the
Earth. To accomplish this, I must
die myself, but you need not, so I
am sending you on a false errand for
your own sake, since you would not
leave me if you knew the truth. One
man’s life is a small price to pay for
the life of a world, and I pay it glad¬
ly. I have no time to write more.
Good-bye, Allan!”

So the note, and as I read it the
tears streamed down my face. And
as I ran on down the slope, between
the dark, giant statues, my tears were
still falling and I saw but dimly
through them the white, anxious face
of Lieutenant Rider, as he ran to¬
ward me. Then, for me, came a mer¬
ciful unconsciousness.

EPILOGUE

T oday, at the very tip of the Gold¬
en Gate, there stands a colossal
statue, the figure of a thin, kindly
man who gazes ever south across the
Pacific. Never a steamer passes out
the bay but salutes it with screaming
whistle; and when the great liners
slip past, the gay chatter on deck
halts, and there is a moment’s tearful
silenee that is a reverent memory of
the man whose effigy it is. For he
saved our world.

[THE

One hand of that statue is flung up
toward the heavens in a superb ges¬
ture, as if pointing to the tiny, gleam¬
ing speck that is Mars at night, a
Mars that we can hardly see now.
And it was that hand that hurled the
planet back into space, back so far
that it fell into the attraction of Ju¬
piter, and now circles that giant
world forever as a moon, never again
to be a menace to us.

Only today I stood at the foot of
that great figure, the testimony of a
world’s gratitude, and looked out
over the gray ocean with it, seeing in
my mind’s eye the lonely little is¬
land, and the strange world far be¬
neath it, where three men strove
against the creatures of hell who
would- have wrecked this Earth.
Three men! One of them lies in the
strange, dead city of the Martians, a
city dead forever, now; and another,
who is now the world’s greatest hero,
rests beneath the shattered ruins of
Rano Kao; and I, the last and least
of the three, stand beneath the statue
of my friend, thinking, remembering.

On Easter Island there are statues
standing, too, but the last remnant
of the race that carved them is gone
now, buried in the same tomb as their
destroyer. The long ages passed, the
year, the day came that saw that race
almost triumphant, almost supreme;
then, at the last moment, their work,
their evil plans, themselves, were
dashed down to nothingness by the
hand and heart and great soul of one
man. But, not knowing this, the
statues on the grassy slopes still gaze
expectantly out to sea.

END]

The Egyptians’ gods are shaped like
beasts, but why they represent them in
this way I had rather not mention.— Herod-

HAT do you think of it?”
asked Professor Dewey.”

The colossal height of the
mummy case accentuated my friend’s
littleness. Somehow (I don’t know
why the image should have presented
itself) I thought of the opium-
haunted De Quincey walking wearily
about the streets of London, a gro¬
tesque little midget in carpet slippers
who carried a world within his head.
Professor Dewey bore an amazing re¬
semblance to De Quincey. His fore¬
head was high and shrunken, and
covered with wrinkles, and the skin
on his lean cheeks was stretched as
taut as yellow parchment. His nose
could scarcely be described as Ro¬
man: it was so excessively Hebraic
that a strain of Jewish blood unques¬
tionably formed a measure of his her¬
itage.. His smile, when he did smile,
was grim and lifeless; and very few
people would have been attracted to

him. But beneath his almost repul¬
sive exterior the little chap had a
good heart, and I found his compan¬
ionship delightfully stimulating.

Professor Dewey’s hobby was
Egyptology, and he imported large
quantities of mummies annually, and
I am sorry to add, illegally. No
prying customs officer ever laid his
sternly official hand on one of Pro¬
fessor Dewey’s acquisitions. No
blue-eyed and impertinent govern¬
ment clerk ever questioned Professor
Dewey as to the value of his queer
and often repulsive property. The
professor had made arrangements
with a dozen sly and secretive skip¬
pers whose Levantine dealings were
seldom above reproach, and as a re¬
sult of his careful bargaining he
never lost a mummy or scarab or
precious stone. In the course of a
single year eighty-three mummies
had been successfully smuggled into
his stately brownstone mansion on
Riverside Drive.

We stood in Professor Dewey’s
mummy-room, a great hall carpeted
699

700

WEIRD TALES

with red velvet and lined with rather
sinister black curtains. It seemed
ridiculous to me that the professor
should furnish this repository with
the trappings of occult melodrama,
but I have always been singularly in¬
capable of fathoming my friend’s
amusing whims. Beneath his whim¬
sicality and eccentricity he was rea¬
sonably genuine, and it is unfair to
expect common sense or restraint
from a man of genius.

The mummy before us was un¬
usually tall. It fairly towered in the
yellowish gloom of the great room,
and it bore unmistakable characteris¬
tics of great age. And it was oddly
shaped—its breast swelled out curi¬
ously and its nose was gigantic. In¬
deed, the latter member almost pro¬
truded through the aromatic and
evil-smelling wrappings. “An Egyp¬
tian Cyrano,” I remarked, and per¬
mitted a grin to disturb my usually
severe and solemn features (the pro¬
fessor often assured me that my fea¬
tures were severe, and being a very
young man I took pardonable pride
in the fact!). “How the ladies must
have hated him! ” I added, seeing my
friend scowl.

“This is a serious matter,” he
said after a pause that seemed inter¬
minable. “Nothing like this has ever
come out of Egypt. I—do—not—like
—it!”

My friend’s voice was distressingly
hollow. It made me nervous, and I
endeavored to quiet him. “There is
nothing very unusual about this
mummy,” I replied. “Some very
peculiar types undoubtedly existed
among the Egyptians. I daresay
they had their side-shows and cir¬
cuses with the odd assortment of
freaks that usually goes with such
things. This poor fellow may have
been a king’s jester—it is really un¬
fair to reproach him with his ugliness
after all these years. I am sure his
life was a very unhappy one.”

The professor’s scowl grew in vol¬

ume. “You must be serious,” he re¬
torted. “This mummy is very un¬
usual. I am not a sensationalist, my
dear boy, but I may say that my
enemies would give a great deal to use
this thing to discredit me. We must
be very wary about publishing the
results of our experiments.”

“Experiments?” I snatched at the
word. I had a boyish and ridiculous
eagerness for all varieties of research.

“I have some experiments in mind
that will demand a great deal of
courage. If you do not feel equal to
them I shall want you to tell me so
quite frankly. But first I must warn
and prepare you, and describe what
we have to deal with.”

The professor lit an absurdly long
panetela and puffed for several mo¬
ments in silence. The smoke ascend¬
ed spirally and formed a curious
grayish nimbus above the mummy
case. The mummy stood out in the
depressing gloom like a sinister
avenger of the eighty-three defense¬
less wretches that Professor Dewey
had dissected and destroyed.

When my friend spoke again his
voice had acquired a small measure
of calm. He spoke slowly, punctuat¬
ing his sentences with an occasional
cough.

‘ ‘ There are few myths in the treas¬
ure-house of mankind that were not
originally based upon solid objective
facts. I do not believe that the
imagination of primitive peoples is
capable of creating bogies out of thin
air. We are too easily deluded by
modern science and altogether too apt
to scoff at the legends of gods and
goddesses that have come down to us.
It is absurd to believe that the Egyp¬
tians created their monstrous bestial
gods from mere observation of living
animals. There is something so im¬
mense, so psychically terrible about
the Egyptian gods that it is difficult
to believe them simply the product of
normal human imagination. They
are either the imaginings of some

THE DOG-EARED GOD

701

dreamer of wrild and unheard-of
powers, an Edgar Poe among the
Egyptians, or-”

Professor Dewey, paused without
stating his alternative. I presume he
wanted his heresy to sink in, for he
waited 'several moments before con¬
tinuing :

“These crocodile gods, these cat¬
headed and bat-eared divinities are
really more debased than anything
to be found anywhere in the modern
world. Even your barbarous black
fellow in Africa or Australia would
be incapable of worshiping anything
so vile. And yet if we are to believe
historians the Egyptians had a high
degree of ethical culture. They
would not fashion such horrors will¬
ingly. I have often thought-”

Again my friend hesitated, as if
ashamed to put his theory into words.
My eagerness apparently reassured
him.

“I have often thought that these
monsters really existed. Why should
we suppose that men are the only in¬
telligent beings on this planet?
There is so much evidence to the con¬
trary, so very much evidence, that I
feel justified in my theory. I do not
think that I am a fool. My enemies”
(I fear my friend suffered from a
persecution complex) “would give
years of their lives to overhear this
conversation. But they shall only
hear of the results— if the results are
not too revolting.”

Professor Dewey sank down on a
chair as if exhausted. Beads of sweat
stood out horribly on his high yellow
forehead. His lips quivered.

“George,” he stammered. “We
must put it to the test. We must
sleep here tonight. Unless, of course,
you fear to sleep in the room with
that.”

“But what is that, really?” I
asked, pointing with horror to the
colossal mummy.

My friend did not answer me di¬

rectly, but his words were dreadfully
disturbing.

“Twenty or thirty thousand years
ago the Egyptians buried their first
kings. There were strange kings in
the dawn world.”

2

■pkoFESsoa dewey was sleeping
A soundly, but something made me
sit up. I am not sure whether I
dreamed a sound, or whether a sound
had actually come from the corner of
the room where the great mummy
stood solemnly in its fifty wrappings.
But whether the dismal noise had
any basis in fact it was a profoundly
disturbing thing to hear at 3 o’clock
in the morning.

Perhaps you have listened to
hounds baying at night across lonely
moors, or perhaps you have heard in
the tropics the horrid moans of small
monkeys when they awake from their
mindless sleep and see the stars
watching them evilly. If you have
heard such sounds you may have a
remote idea of how vile these audibly
sinister exhibitions of evil and fright
seem to a normally constituted man.

The low whining that I heard
(and it occasionally seemed to rise to
an actual baying) did not frighten
me. But had the chair that loomed
unpleasantly before me out of the
gloom suddenly entered into conver¬
sation with the sofa, or had the clock
walked across the mantel, I should
not have been more horrified.

I sat up and waited. For several
moments nothing happened, but then
I heard a low scratching and scraping
as if something were trying to get
out of the closet. Claws of some sort
were indubitably at work somewhere.

“Rats!” I reflected, and I clung
to the suggestion warmly. Of course
there would be rats in a house given
over to unhallowed and unsavory
practises. “The professor is fortu¬
nate to have rats to do the really

702

WEIRD TALES

dirty work,” I mused. “They save
him the bother of burning the
odds and ends. It must be damnably
difficult to get rid of fingernails and
hair and such things, unless one burns
them, and of course the rats would
save him that task. The professor is
really very fortunate. Dear, jolly
rats!”

Then I realized the fatuousness of
my reflections and passed my hand
rapidly back and forth across my
face. My forehead was infernally
warm; I was excited, feverish. “It’s
probably a touch of influenza,” I
thought. “I should never have slept
in this eold room. ’ ’ I recalled that I
had been sneezing and coughing most
of the previous afternoon. The slight¬
est touch of fever makes me deliri¬
ous—-in that respect I am abnormally
favored.

I pulled the blankets about my
neck and turned over. I think then
that I slept, but I am convinced that
what I saw later had some external
significance. The thing was more
than a mere dream and certainly
more than a hallucination. It was, I
think, an actual body of memories
projected across the room. When I
saw it I was sitting up, and I heard
the clock outside strike 4.

A white immensity spread before
me, and for a moment its whiteness
blinded me. It was like a series of
projections on the silver screen. The
white substance was continually
changing, now thinning, now thick¬
ening, and horrid, distorted forms
moved about in it. The forms were
amorphous, and I could not at first
distinguish them clearly. They were
not altogether human. They seemed
to have the bodies of men, but the
heads of animals.

When the vision, or call it what you
will, became clearer I saw that the
unmentionable creatures had formed
into a solid phalanx, and that they
were marching solemnly before me.
They carried between them some un¬

speakable object which they made no
effort to conceal.

If the forms of the marchers were
revolting, the form of the long, dis¬
torted thing that they carried was in¬
fernal. It was covered with hair, but
I never had seen anything like it
under the stars. It had a sunken bat¬
like face, and great, dog-shaped ears,
and its yellow teeth glittered om¬
inously in the strange, unnatural
light. The thing was obviously life¬
less, and its cheeks were sunken and
hollow.

The watchers carried torches which
they waved exultantly as if almost
glad that the thing had died. I had a
curious sympathy for these others,
but heaven knows they were vile
enough. The torches gave off a weird
blue light and even, I thought, a me¬
phitic smell; and as I watched, new
ones were lit and the swaying, blas¬
phemous procession moved forward
more rapidly.

And then the chanting and inton¬
ing commenced, and the dreadful
hymns for the dead swelled and re¬
vibrated in the room until I put my
hands before my ears to shut out the
ancient and obscene chants.

“Our master out of the skies is
dead!” they wailed. “Deep, deep in
the earth shall we bury our king.
Long has he ruled us, and horrible
the evil he did to us, but he was our
king out of the skies, and we re¬
vere his memory. Horrible his black
tongue that shot out fire, horrible the
maidens he devoured, horrible the
blood he drank, but he was a king.
In the book of the dead it is written
that he shall be judged by gods, by
his peers he shall be judged. He
shall appear as a snake, as a reptile
before his peers, but by his ears they
shall know him.”

Then the picture cleared terribly,
and I saw that the procession trod
hot reddish sands, and a great stone
effigy loomed up behind them. It
was a sphinx, but a more ancient

THE DOG-EARED GOD

sphinx than the one we know, and its
eyes glowed banefully. And in a
deep and perfectly round hole dug in
the sand at the statue’s base they
buried their king, and strewed gold
dust upon him, and anointed his
limbs with oil which they poured
from jars of veined porphyry.

Unmentionable were the rites they
performed above him, and the last
words of their loathsome high priest,
who had the head of a lizard, were
lethal words, and I shivered when I
realized at whom they were directed.

“For thirty centuries you shall
sleep, but a little shameless creature
with no hair to cover him shall drag
you forth, because in his time he shall
be as a god. But his evil day will not
be long under the sun.. He too shall
return unto dust, and a very thin
creature with neither legs nor eyes
shall play havoc with his bones. It
is written. Rest in peace, and re¬
member us who worshiped you!”

The vision grew vaguer, and the
forms seemed to converge and merge
into each other. Then gradually the
darkness closed in, and I found my¬
self staring with frightened eyes at
Professor Dewey’s monstrous acqui¬
sition. It loomed vaguely out of the
blackness, and it seemed to be stir¬
ring, and squirming about.

I watched fascinated while the an¬
cient wrappings fell away, and two
long pink hands fumbled hectically
with mildewed cerements. The hands
were abnormally emaciated, and cov¬
ered with thin, reddish hair.

I endeavored to rise, but the eyes
of the thing watched me evilly, and
ordered me to be silent. It seemed
angry that I should question its spir¬
itual supremacy. It had uncovered
its eyes, but the.great loathsome nose
remained mercifully concealed by sev¬
eral layers of disintegrating wrap¬
pings. It was frightful to watch the
thing’s efforts to free itself. It wrig¬
gled and squirmed, and in its vile¬
ness it resembled a great fleshy worm

endeavoring to escape from some
deep sewer of earth.

What followed will always remain
confused in my memory. I seem to
recall Professor Dewey upon his back
with closed eyes, and something
standing above him in the dim light
like an immemorial avenger. I seem
to glimpse a supremely ghastly ex¬
terior—two great ears protruding
from a narrow and greenish skull,
and a great nose like an elephant’s
trunk showing briefly in profile.

Then fire—a deluge of colored fire,
which shot out of the creature’s nose
and mouth, fire from hell, fire from
beyond Arcturus. I saw the profes¬
sor’s eyes open, and I saw him stare
at the thing for a moment in triumph.
The exultation in his face was quickly
replaced by agony and despair. He
threw out his arms as if endeavoring
to ward off an immediate doom, and
while I watched, his face shriveled
and blackened.

“I was right,” he shrieked. “The
Egyptians did not worship men. God
pity my poor soul! ’ ’

I did not stay to comfort ihy
stricken friend. I ran slirieking from
the room, and out of the house into
the street. I looked up to see thick
black smoke pouring from an upper
window, but I turned in no alarm. I
ran wildly across deserted squares
and through winding alleys and filial¬
ly found my why to a leering subway
entrance.

I fled insanely down the stairs,
and climbed over the turnstile with¬
out depositing a fare. Luckily no
one saw me. In a moment I was in
a roaring train, my arms flung about
a drunken beggar, and into his aston¬
ished ears I poured a tale that made
him gasp and shake his head.

“You young ’uns alius get it. some¬
where,” he grimaced. “I wish I had
your luck.”

704

WEIRD TALES

I have always found newspaper
men exceedingly prosaic. The
following cutting from a New York
paper demonstrates my point:

A fire in the upper West Side caused a
great deal of disturbance yesterday morn¬
ing, when police reserves from three sta¬
tions fought with firemen to keep excited
passers-by from entering the burning
building. For two hours thirty or forty
hooded men endeavored to rescue the in¬
mates, and caused a great deal of disturb¬
ance. The police were unable to explain
why utter strangers should take such aa
interest in one poor perishing wretch, since
it was later ascertained that the house was
occupied by an eccentric professor and mis¬
anthrope who is suspected of bootlegging
operations. Patrolman Henley, from the
West 93rd Street Station, claims that one
of the would-be rescuers removed his hood

for a brief moment, and that his face was
covered with fur, and eaten away at the
corners. Luckily for Patrolman Henley’s
reputation he is known to suffer from mi-
-graine, and it is probable that what he
imagined he saw had no basis in fact.

The wildly excited attempts of strangers
to enter the building completely frustrated
operations, and the unfortunate inmate
perished. For a moment he was seen at
the window, and those who were standing
on the sidewalk immediately underneath
declare that his hair and beard were ac¬
tually on fire.

The upper portion of the building was
completely destroyed. A number of curi¬
ous bones were found in the room, includ¬
ing the skeleton of a gigantic dog. During
the past week three previous fires have
been reported in the neighborhood, and the
police are investigating rumors of a fire¬
bug.

The Caves of Kooli-Kan

By ROBERT S. CARR

Where a grim and ghastly river wrapped in brooding menace flows
Through a barren blackened mountain that was never known to man,

In an awful land of silence where the sun all blood-red shows,

Lie those shrieking pits of horror called the Caves of Kooli-Kan.

Down the grim and ghastly river, clothed in lurid lights, come boats

Full of great black hairy Somethings with a hundred staring eyes,

Who converse on grisly subjects in their low and froglike notes,

Bathed in bloody beams of sunlight which come dripping from the skies.

Where the boats stop at a landing built of countless polished bones,

There the huge and hairy Somethings, full of mutterings, climb out,

To descend a gloomy stairway from whence issue tortured groans,

Mixed with peals of ghoulish laughter from that awful realm of doubt.

Some foul, sweaty, slimy substance from the walls exudes in beads,

For the barren, blackened mountain has, for ages steeped in sin,

Acted as the bridal chamber of the blackest, foulest deeds, .

As the cradle of the creature called the Never-Should-Have-Been.

Huge, uncouth, misshapen Things whose screams of pain the senses numb.
Mighty, voiceless grim Unknowns with wings like bats the darkness iaiF;

All the wild-eyed stark mad terror for a million years to come

Haunts those shrieking pits of horror called the Caves of Kooli-Kan.

WEIRD STORY REPRINT

No. 1 7. Ligeia

By EDGAR ALLAN POE

I CAN not, for my soul, remember
how, when, or even precisely
where, I first became acquainted
with the lady Ligeia. Long years
since have elapsed, and my memory is
feeble through much suffering. Or,
perhaps, I can not now bring these
points to mind, because in truth the
character of my beloved, her rare
learning, her singular yet placid cast
of beauty, and the thrilling and en¬
thralling eloquence of her low music¬
al language, made their way into my
heart by paces so steadily and
stealthily progressive that they have
been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I
believe that I met her first and most
frequently in some large, old, decay¬
ing city near the Rhine. Of her fam¬
ily I have surely heard her speak.
That it is of a remotely ancient date
can not be doubted. Ligeia! Ligeia!
Buried in studies of a nature more
than all else adapted to deaden im¬
pressions of the outward world, it is
by that sweet word alone—my Ligeia
—that I bring before mine eyes in
fancy the image of her who is no
more. And now, while I write, a rec¬
ollection flashes upon me that I have
never known the paternal name of
her who was my friend and my be¬
trothed, and who became the partner
of my studies, and finally the wife of
my bosom. Was it a playful charge
on the part of my Ligeia or was it a
test of my strength of affection, that
I should institute no inquiries upon

*Poe himself considered this story his master-

this point? or was it rather a caprice
of my own—a wildly romantic offer¬
ing on the shrine of the most passion¬
ate devotion? I but indistinctly re¬
call the fact itself—what wonder that
I have utterly forgotten the circum¬
stances which originated or attended
it? And, indeed, if ever that spirit
which is entitled Romance —if ever
she, the wan and the misty-winged
Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, pre¬
sided, as they tell, over marriages ill-
omened, then most surely she presid¬
ed over mine.

There is one dear topic, however, on
which my memory fails me not. It is
the person of Ligeia. In stature she
was tall, somewhat slender, and, in
her latter days, even emaciated., I
would in vain attempt to portray the
majesty, the quiet ease, of her de¬
meanor, or the incomprehensible
lightness and elasticity of her footfall.
She came and departed as a shadow.
I was never made aware of her en¬
trance into my closed study, save by
the dear music of her low sweet
voice, as she placed her marble hand
upon my shoulder. In beauty of face
no maiden ever equaled her. It was
the radiance of an opium-dream—an
airy and spirit-lifting vision more
wildly divine than the fantasies
which hovered about the slumbering
souls of the daughters of Delos. Yet
her features were not of that regular
mold which we have been falsely
taught to worship in the classical la¬
bors of the heathen. ‘ ‘ There is no ex¬
quisite beauty,” says Bacon, Lord

WEIRD TALES

Verulam, speaking truly of all the
forms and genera of beauty, “without
some strangeness in the proportion.”
Yet, although I saw that the features
of Ligeia were not of a classic regu¬
larity—although I perceived that her
loveliness was indeed “exquisite,”
and felt that there was much of
“strangeness” pervading it, yet I
have tried in vain to detect the ir¬
regularity and to trace home my own
perception of “the strange.” I ex¬
amined the contour of the lofty and
pale forehead: it was faultless—how
cold indeed that word when applied
to a majesty so divine!—the skin
rivaling the purest ivory, the com¬
manding extent and repose, the gen¬
tle prominence of the regions above
the temples; and then the raven-
black, the glossy, the luxuriant and
naturally curling tresses, setting
forth the full force of the Homeric
epithet, “hyacinthine!” I looked at
the delicate outlines of the nose—and
nowhere but in the graceful medal¬
lions of the Hebrews had I beheld a
similar perfection. There were the
same luxurious smoothness of surface,
the same scarcely perceptible ten¬
dency to the aquiline, the same har¬
moniously curved nostrils speaking
the free spirit. I regarded the sweet
mouth. Here was indeed the triumph
of all things heavenly—the magnifi¬
cent turn of the short upper lip—the
soft, voluptuous slumber of the under
—the dimples which sported, and the
color which spoke—the teeth glancing
back, with a brilliancy almost start¬
ling, every ray of the holy light which
fell upon them in her serene and
placid, yet most exultingly radiant of
,all smiles. I scrutinized the forma¬
tion of the chin: and here, too, I
found the gentleness of breadth, the
softness and the majesty, the fullness
and the spirituality, of the Greek—
the contour which the god Apollo re¬
vealed but in a dream of Cleomenes,
the son of the Athenian. And then I
peered into the large eyes of Ligeia.

For eyes we have no models in the
remotely antique. It might have been,
too, that in these eyes of my beloved
lay the secret to which Lord Verulam
alludes. They were, I must believe,
far larger than the ordinary eyes of
our own race. They were even fuller
than the fullest of the gazelle eyes of
the tribe of the valley of Nourjahad.
Yet it was only at intervals—in mo¬
ments of intense excitement—that
this peculiarity became more than
slightly noticeable in Ligeia. And at
such moments was her beauty—in my
heated fancy thus it appeared per¬
haps—the beauty of beings either
above or apart from the earth, the
beauty of the fabulous Houri of the
Turk. The hue of the orbs was the
most brilliant of black, and, far over
them, hung jetty lashes of great
length. The brows, slightly irregular
in outline, had the same tint. The
“strangeness,” however, which I
found in the eyes, was of a nature dis¬
tinct from the formation, or the color,
or the brilliancy of the features, and
must, after all, be referred to the ex¬
pression. Ah, word of no meaning!
behind whose vast latitude of mere
sound we intrench our ignorance of so
much of the spiritual. The expres¬
sion of the eyes of Ligeia! How for
long hours have I pondered upon it!
How have I, through the whole of a
midsummer night, struggled to fath¬
om it! What was it—that something
more profound than the well of Dem¬
ocritus—which lay far within the pu¬
pils of my beloved? What was it? I
was possessed with a passion to dis¬
cover. Those eyes! those large, those
shining, those divine orbs! they be¬
came to me twin stars of Leda, and I
to them devoutest of astrologers.

There is no point, among the many
incomprehensible anomalies of the
science of mind, more thrillingly ex¬
citing than the fact—never, I believe,
noticed in the schools—that in our en¬
deavors to recall to memory some¬
thing long forgotten, we often‘find

LIGEIA

707

ourselves upon the very verge of re¬
membrance, without being able, in the
end, to remember. And thus how fre¬
quently, in my intense scrutiny of Li¬
geia’s eyes, have I felt approaching
the full knowledge of their expression
—felt it approaching, yet not quite be
mine, and so at length entirely de¬
part! And (strange, oh strangest
mystery of all!) I found, in the com¬
monest objects of the universe, a cir¬
cle of analogies to that expression. I
mean to say that, subsequently to the
period when Ligeia’s beauty passed
into my spirit, there dwelling as in a
shrine, I derived, from many exist¬
ences in the material world, a senti¬
ment such as I felt always around,
within me, by her large and luminous
orbs. Yet not the more could I define
that sentiment, or analyze, or even
steadily view it. I recognized it, let
me repeat, sometimes in the survey of
a rapidly-growing vine—in the con¬
templation of a moth, a butterfly, a
chrysalis, a stream of running water.
I have felt it in the ocean; in the fall¬
ing of a meteor. I have felt it in the
glances of unusually aged people.
And there are one or two stars in
heaven (one especially, a star of the
sixth magnitude, double and change¬
able, to be found near the large star
in Lyra), in a telescopic scrutiny of
which I have been made aware of the
feeling. I have been filled with it by
certain sounds from stringed instru¬
ments, and not unfrequently by pas¬
sages from books. Among innumera¬
ble other instances, I well remember
something in a volume of Joseph
Glanvill, which (perhaps merely from
its quaintness—who shall say?) never
failed to inspire me with the senti¬
ment: “And the will therein lieth,
which dieth not. Who knoweth the
mysteries of the will, with its vigor?
For God is but a great will pervading
all things by nature of its intentness.
Man doth not yield him to the angels,
nor unto death utterly, save only
through the weakness of his feeble
will.”

Length of years and subsequent re¬
flection have enabled me to trace, in¬
deed, some remote connection between
this passage in the English moralist
and a portion of the character of
Ligeia. An intensity in thought, ac¬
tion, or speech, was possibly, in her, a
result, or at least an index, of that
gigantic volition which, during our
long intercourse, failed to give other
and more immediate evidence of its
existence. Of all the women whom I
have ever known, she, the outwardly
calm, the ever-placid Ligeia, was the
most violently a prey to the tumultu¬
ous vultures of stern passion. And of
such passion I could form no estimate,
save by the miraculous expansion of
those eyes which at once so delighted
and appalled me—by the almost mag¬
ical melody, modulation, distinctness,
and placidity of her very low voice—
and by the fierce energy (rendered
doubly effective by contrast with her
manner of utterance) of the wild
words which she habitually uttered.

I have spoken of the learning of
Ligeia: it was immense—such as I
have never known in woman. In the
classical tongues was she deeply profi¬
cient, and as far as my own acquaint¬
ance extended in regard to the mod¬
em dialects of Europe, I have never
known her at fault. Indeed upon any
theme of the most admired, because
simply the most abstruse of the
boasted erudition of the academy,
have I ever found Ligeia at fault?
How singularly, how thrillingly, this
one point in the nature of my wife
has forced itself, at this late period
only, upon my attention! I said her
knowledge was such as I have never
known in woman—but where breathes
the man who has traversed, and suc¬
cessfully, all the wide areas of moral,
physical, and mathematical science? I
saw not then what I now clearly per¬
ceive, that the acquisitions of Ligeia
were gigantic, were astounding; yet I
was sufficiently aware of her infinite
supremacy to resign myself, with a

WEIRD TALES

childlike confidence, to her guidance
through the chaotic world of meta¬
physical investigation at which I was
most busily occupied during the ear¬
lier years of our marriage. With how
vast a triumph, with how vivid a de¬
light, with how much of all that is
ethereal in hope, did I feel, as she
bent over me in studies but little
sought—but less known, that delicious
vista by slow degrees expanding be¬
fore me, down whose long, gorgeous,
and all untrodden path, I might at
length pass onward to the goal of a
wisdom too divinely precious not to be
forbidden!

How poignant, then, must have
been the grief with which, after some
years, I beheld my well-grounded ex¬
pectations take wings to themselves
and fly away! Without Ligeia I was
but as a child groping benighted.
Her presence, her readings alone, ren¬
dered vividly luminous the many
mysteries of the transcendentalism in
which we were immersed. Wanting
the radiant luster of her eyes, letters,
lambent and golden, grew duller than
Saturnian lead. And now those eyes
shone less and less frequently upon
the pages over which I pored. Ligeia
grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a
too—too glorious effulgence; the pale
fingers became of the transparent
waxen hue of the grave; and the blue
veins upon the lofty forehead swelled
and sank impetuously with the tides
of the most gentle emotion. I saw
that she must die—and I struggled
desperately in spirit with the grim
Azrael. And the struggles of the pas¬
sionate wife were, to my astonish¬
ment, even more energetic than my
own. There had been much in her
stern nature to impress me with the
belief that, to her, death would have
come without its terrors; but not so.
Words are impotent to convey any
just idea of the fierceness of resist¬
ance with which she wrestled with the
Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the
pitiable spectacle. I would have

soothed—I would have reasoned; but,
in the intensity of her wild desire for
life—for life —but for life—solace
and reason were alike the uttermost
of folly. Yet not until the last in¬
stance, amid the most convulsive
writhings of her fierce spirit, was
shaken the external placidity of her
demeanor. Her voice grew more gen¬
tle—grew more low—yet I would not
wish to dwell upon the wild meaning
of the quietly uttered words. My
brain reeled as I harkened, en¬
tranced, to a melody more than mor¬
tal—to assumptions and aspirations
which mortality had never before
known.

That she loved me I should not
have doubted; and I might have been
easily aware that, in a bosom such as
hers, love would have reigned no or¬
dinary passion. But in death only
was I fully impressed with the
strength of her affection. For long
hours, detaining my hand, would she
pour out before me the overflowing of
a heart whose more than passionate
devotion amounted to idolatry. How
had I deserved to be so blessed by
such confessions ? how had I deserved
to be so cursed with the removal of
my beloved in the hour of her making
them? But upon this subject I can
not bear to dilate. Let me say only,
that in Ligeia’s more than womanly
abandonment to a love, alas! all un¬
merited, all unworthily bestowed, I at
length recognized the principle of her
longing, with so wildly earnest a de¬
sire, for the life which was now flee¬
ing so rapidly away. It is this wild
longing, it is this eager vehemence of
desire for life —but for life, that I
have no power to portray, no utter¬
ance capable of expressing.

At high noon of the night in which
she departed, beckoning me perempt¬
orily to her side, she bade me repeat
certain verses composed by herself not
many days before. I obeyed her.
They were these:

LIGEIA

709

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theater to see
A play of hopes and fears.

While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly; •

Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Wo. - •

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever retumeth in
To the selfsame spot;

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:

A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!

It writhes—it writhes! with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food.

And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!

And over each quivering form

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

While the angels, all pallid and wan.
Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play ds the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

“Oh God!” half shrieked Ligeia,
leaping to her feet and extending her
arms aloft with a spasmodic move¬
ment, as I made an end of these lines
—“0 God! O Divine Father! shall
these things be nndeviatingly so?
shall this conqueror be not once con¬
quered? Are we not part and parcel
in Thee? Who—who knoweth the
mysteries of the will with its vigor?
‘Man doth not yield him to the
angels, nor unto death utterly, save
only through the weakness of his
feeble will.’ ”

And now, as if exhausted with
emotion, she suffered her white arms

to fall, and returned solemnly to her
bed of death. And as she breathed
her last sighs, there came mingled
with them a low murmur from her
lips. I bent to them my ear, and dis¬
tinguished, again, the concluding
words of the passage in Glanvill:
“Maw doth not yield him to the
angels, nor unto death utterly, save
only through the weakness of his
feeble will.”

She died: and I, crushed into the
very dust with sorrow, could no
longer endure the lonely desolation
of my dwelling in the dim and decay¬
ing city by the Rhine. I had no lack
of what the world calls wealth.
Ligeia had brought me far more,
very far more, than ordinarily falls
to the lot of mortals. After a few
months, therefore, of weary and aim¬
less wandering, I purchased, and put
in some repair, an abbey, which 1
shall not name, in one of the wildest
and least frequented portions of fair
England. The gloomy and dreary
grandeur of the building, the almost
savage aspect of the domain, the
many melancholy and time-honored
memories connected with both, had
much in unison with the feeling ol'
utter abandonment which had driven
me into that remote and unsocial
region of the country. Yet although
the external abbey, with its verdant
decay hanging about it, suffered but
little alteration, I gave way with a
childlike perversity, and perchance
with a faint hope of alleviating my
sorrows, to a display of more thar
regal magnificence within. For such
follies, even in childhood, I had im¬
bibed a taste, and now they came bad;
to me as if in the dotage of grief
Alas, I feel how much even of incipi
ent madness might have been discov
ered in the gorgeous and fantastic
draperies, in the solemn carvings o
Egypt, in the wild cornices and fumi
ture, in the Bedlam patterns of the
carpets of tufted gold! I had become
a bounden slave in the trammels oi

710

WEIRD TALES

opium, and my labors and my orders
had taken a coloring from my dreams.
But these absurdities I must not pause
to detail. Let me speak only of that
one chamber ever accursed, whither,
in a moment of mental alienation, I
led from the altar as my bride—as the
successor of the unforgotten Ligeia—
the fair-haired and blue-eyed Lady
Rowena Trevanion, of Tremaine.

'-pHERE is an individual portion of
the architecture and decoration
of that bridal chamber which is not
now visible before me. Where were
the souls of the haughty family of the
bride, when, through thirst of gold,
p^oqsojift aip ssed o^ pawrauad Xaip
of an apartment so bedecked, a maid¬
en and a daughter so beloved? I
have said that I minutely remember
the details of the chamber—yet I am
sadly forgetful of topics of deep mo¬
ment; and here there was no system,
no keeping, in the fantastic display,
to take hold upon the memory. The
room lay in a high turret of the castel¬
lated abbey, was pentagonal in shape,
and of capacious size. Occupying
the whole southern face of the penta¬
gon was the sole window—an im¬
mense sheet of unbroken glass from
Venice—a single pane, and tinted of
a leaden hue, so that the rays of
either the sun or moon, passing
through it, fell with a ghastly luster
on the objects within. Over the up¬
per portion of the huge window ex¬
tended the trellis-work of an aged
vine, which clambered up the massy
walls of the turret. The ceiling, of
gloomy-looking oak, was excessively
lofty, vaulted, and elaborately fretted
with the wildest and most grotesque
specimens of a semi-Gothic, semi-
Druidical device. From out of the
most central recess of this melan¬
choly vaulting depended, by a single
chain of gold with long links, a huge
censer of the same metal, Saracenic in
pattern, and with many perforations
so contrived that there writhed in and

out of them, as if endued with ser¬
pent vitality, a continual succession
of party-colored fires.

Some few ottomans and golden can¬
delabra, of Eastern figure, were in
various stations about; and there was
the couch, too—the bridal couch—of
an Indian model, and v low, and sculp¬
tured of solid ebony, with a pall-like
canopy above. In each of the angles
of the chamber stood on end a gigan¬
tic sarcophagus of black granite, from
the tombs of the kings over against
Luxor, with their aged lids full of
immemorial sculpture. But in the
draping of the apartment lay, alas!
the chief fantasy of all. The lofty
walls, gigantic in height, even un-
proportionably so, were hung from
summit to foot, in vast folds, with a
heavy and massive-looking tapestry—
tapestry of a material which was
found alike as a carpet on the floor,
as a covering for the ottomans and
the ebony bed, as a canopy for the
bed, and as the gorgeous volutes of
the curtains which partially shaded
the window. The material was the
richest cloth of gold. It was spotted
all over, at irregular intervals, with
arabesque figures, about a foot in
diameter, and wrought upon the cloth
in patterns of the most jetty black.
But these figures partook of the true
character of the arabesque only when
regarded from a single point of view.
By a contrivance now common, and
indeed traceable to a very remote
period of antiquity, they were made
changeable in aspect. To one enter¬
ing the room, they bore the appear¬
ance of simple monstrosities; but
upon a farther advance, this appear¬
ance gradually departed; and, step
by step, as the visitor moved his sta¬
tion in the chamber, he saw himself
surrounded by an endless succession
of the ghastly forms which belong to
the superstition of the Norman, or
arise in the guilty slumbers of the
monk. The fantasmagoric effect was
vastly heightened by the artificial in-

LIGEIA

711

troduction of a strong continual cur¬
rent of wind behind the draperies,
giving a hideous and uneasy anima¬
tion to the whole.

In halls such as these, in a bridal
chamber such as this, I passed, with
the Lady of Tremaine, the unhal¬
lowed hours of the first month of our
marriage—passed them with but little
disquietude. That my wife dreaded
the fierce moodiness of my temper—
that she shunned me, and loved me
but little—I could not help perceiv¬
ing; but it gave me rather pleasure
than otherwise. I loathed her with a
hatred belonging more to demon than
to man. My memory flew back (oh,
with what intensity of regret!) to
Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the
beautiful, the entombed. I reveled
in recollections of her purity, of her
wisdom, of her lofty, her ethereal na¬
ture, of her passionate, her idolatrous
love. Now, then, did my spirit fully
and frgely burn with more than all
the fires of her own. In the excite¬
ment of my opium dreams (for I was
habitually fettered in the shackles of
the drug), I would call aloud upon
her name, during the silence of the
night, or among the sheltered recesses
of the glens by day, as if, through the
wild eagerness, the solemn passion,
the consuming ardor of my longing
for the departed, I could restore her
to the pathway she had abandoned—
ah, could it be forever?—upon the
earth.

About the commencement of the
second month of the marriage, the
Lady Rowena was attacked with sud¬
den illness, from which her recovery
was slow. The fever which consumed
her, rendered her nights uneasy; and
in her perturbed state of half-slum¬
ber, she spoke of sounds, and of mo¬
tions, in and about the chamber of
the turret, which I concluded had no
origin save in the distemper of her
fancy, or perhaps in the fantasma-
goric influences of the chamber itself.
She became at length convalescent—

finally, well. Yet but a brief period
elapsed, ere a second more violent dis¬
order again threw her upon a bed of
suffering; and from this attack her
frame, at all times feeble, never alto¬
gether recovered. Her illnesses were,
after this epoch, of alarming charac¬
ter, and of more alarming recurrence,
defying alike the knowledge and the
great exertions of her physicians.
With the increase of the chronic dis¬
ease, which had thus apparently
taken too sure hold upon her consti¬
tution to be eradicated by human
means, I could not fail to observe a
similar increase in the nervous irri¬
tation of her temperament, and in her
excitability by trivial causes of fear.
She spoke again, and now more fre¬
quently and pertinaciously, of the
sounds—of the slight sounds—and of
the unusual motions among the
tapestries, to which she had formerly
alluded.

/'"Vne night, near the closing in of
September, she pressed this dis¬
tressing subject with more than usual
emphasis upon my attention. She
had just awakened from an unquiet
slumber, and I had been watching,
with feelings half of anxiety, half of
vague terror, the workings of her
emaciated countenance. I sat by the
side of her ebony bed, upon one of
the ottomans of India. She partly
arose, and spoke, in an earnest low
whisper, of sounds which she then
heard, but which I could not hear—
of motions which she then saw, but
which I could not perceive. The wind
was rushing hurriedly behind the
tapestries, and I wished to show her
(what, let me confess it, I could not
all believe) that those almost inarticu¬
late breathings, and those very gentle
variations of the figures upon the
wall, were but the natural effects of
that customary rushing of the wind.
But a deadly pallor, overspreading
her face, had proved to me that my
exertions to reassure her would be

712

WEIRD TALES

fruitless. She appeared to be faint¬
ing, and no attendants were within
call. I remembered where was de¬
posited a decanter of light wine which
had been ordered by her physicians,
and hastened across the chamber to
procure it. But, as I stepped beneath
the light of the censer, two circum¬
stances of a startling nature attracted
my attention. I had felt that some
palpable although invisible object had
passed lightly by my person; and I
saw that there lay upon the golden
carpet, in the very middle of the rich
luster thrown from the censer, a
shadow—a faint, indefinite shadow of
angelic aspect—such as might be
fancied for the shadow of a shade.
But I was wild with the excitement
of an immoderate dose of opium, and
heeded these things but little, nor
spoke of them to Rowena. Having
found the wine, I recrossed the cham¬
ber, and poured out a gobletful, which
I held to the lips of the fainting lady.
She had now partially recovered, how¬
ever, and took the vessel herself, while
I sank upon an ottoman near me, with
my eyes fastened upon her person. It
was then that I became distinctly
aware of a gentle footfall upon the
carpet, and near the couch; and in a
second thereafter, as Rowena was in
the act of raising the wine to her lips,
I saw, or may have dreamed that I
saw, fall within the goblet, as if from
some invisible spring in the atmos¬
phere of the room, three or four large
drops of a brilliant and ruby-colored
fluid. If this I saw—not so Rowena.
She swallowed the wine unhesitating¬
ly, and I forbore to speak to her of a
circumstance which must after all, I
considered, have been but the sug¬
gestion of a vivid imagination, rend¬
ered morbidly active by the terror of
the lady, by the opium, and by the
hour.

Yet I can not conceal it from my
own perception that, immediately
subsequent to the fall of the ruby-
drops, a rapid change for the worse

took place in the disorder of my wife;
so that, on the third subsequent night,
the hands of her menials prepared
her for the tomb, and on the fourth,
I sat alone, with her shrouded body,
in that fantastic chamber which had
received her as my bride. Wild vi¬
sions, opium-engendered, flitted shad¬
owlike before me. I gazed with un¬
quiet eye upon the sarcophagi in the
angles of the room, upon the varying
figures of the drapery, and upon the
writhing of the party-colored fires in
the censer overhead. My eyes then
fell, as I called to mind the circum¬
stances of a former night, to the spot
beneath the glare of the censer where
I had seen the faint traces of the
shadow. It was there, however, no
longer; and breathing with greater
freedom, I turned my glances to the
pallid and rigid figure upon the bed.
Then rushed upon me a thousand
memories of Ligeia—and then came
back to my heart, with the turbulent
violence of a flood, the whole of that
unutterable wo with which I had re¬
garded her thus enshrouded. The
night waned; and still, with a bosom
full of bitter thoughts of the one and
only and supremely beloved, I re¬
mained gazing upon the body of
Rowena.

It might have been midnight, or
perhaps earlier, or later, for I had
taken no note of time, when a sob,
low, gentle, but very distinct, startled
me from my revery. I felt that it
came from the bed of ebony—the bed
of death. I listened in an agony of
superstitious terror—but there was no
repetition of the sound. I strained
my vision to detect any motion in the
corpse—but there was not the slight¬
est perceptible. Yet I could not have
been deceived. I had heard the noise,
however faint, and my soul was
awakened within me. I resolutely
and perseveringly kept my attention
riveted upon the body. Many minutes
elapsed before any circumstances oc¬
curred tending to throw light upon

LIGEIA

713

the mystery. At length it became evi¬
dent that a slight, a very feeble and
barely noticeable tinge of color had
flushed up within the cheeks, and
along the sunken small veins of the
eyelids. Through a species of unut¬
terable horror and awe, for which the
language of mortality has no suffi¬
ciently energetic expression, I felt my
heart cease to beat, my limbs grow
rigid where I sat. Yet a sense of
duty finally operated to restore my
self-possession. I could no longer
doubt that we had been precipitate
in our preparations—that Rowena
still lived. It was necessary that
some immediate exertion be made;
yet the turret was altogether apart
from the portion of the abbey ten¬
anted by the servants—there were
none within call—I had no means of
summoning them to my aid without
leaving the room for many minutes—
and this I could not venture to do.
I therefore struggled alone in my en¬
deavors to call hack the spirit still
hovering. In a short period it was
certain, however, that a relapse had
taken place; the color disappeared
from both eyelids and cheek, leaving
a wanness even more than that of
marble; the lips became doubly
shriveled and pinched up in the
ghastly expression of death; a re¬
pulsive clamminess and coldness over¬
spread rapidly the surface of the
body; and all the usual rigorous stiff¬
ness immediately supervened. I fell
back with a shudder upon the couch
from which I had been so startlingly
aroused, and again gave myself up to
passionate waking visions of Ligeia.

An hour thus elapsed, when (could
it be possible?) I was a second time
aware of some vague sound issuing
from the region of the bed. I listened
—in extremity of horror. The sound
came again—it was a sigh. Rushing
to the corpse, I saw—distinctly saw
—a tremor upon the lips. In a

minute afterward they relaxed, dis¬
closing a bright line of the pearly
teeth. Amazement now struggled in
my bosom with the profound awe
which had hitherto reigned there
alone. I felt that my vision grew dim,
that my reason wandered; and it
was only by a violent effort that I at
length succeeded in nerving myself
to the task which duty thus once more
had pointed out. There was now a
partial glow upon the forehead and
upon the cheek and throat; a per¬
ceptible warmth pervaded the whole
frame; there was even a slight pulsa¬
tion at the heart. The lady lived;
and with redoubled ardor I betook
myself to the task of restoration. I
chafed and bathed the temples and
the hands, and used every exertion
which experience, and no little medi¬
cal reading, could suggest. But in
vain. Suddenly, the color fled, the
pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the
expression of the dead, and, in an
instant afterward, the whole body
took upon itself the icy chilliness, the
livid hue, the intense rigidity, the
sunken outline, and all the loathsome
peculiarities of that which has been,
for many days, a tenant of the tomb.

And again I sunk into visions of
Ligeia—and again (what marvel that
I shudder while I write?) again there
reached my ears a low sob from the
region of the ebony bed. But why
shall I minutely detail the unspeak¬
able horrors of that night? Why
shall I pause to relate how, time after
time, until near the period of the
gray dawn, this hideous drama of
revivification was repeated; how each
terrific relapse was only into a sterner
and apparently more irredeemable
death; how each agony wore the as¬
pect of a struggle with some invisible
foe; and how each struggle was suc¬
ceeded by I know not what of wild
change in the personal appearance of
the corpse? Let me hurry to a con¬
clusion.

714

WEIRD TALES

'T'he greater part of the fearful
night had worn away, and she
who had been dead, Once again stirred
—and now more vigorously than
hitherto, although arousing from a
dissolution more appalling in its ut¬
ter helplessness than any. I had long
ceased to struggle or to move, and
remained sitting rigidly upon the ot¬
toman, a helpless prey to a whirl of
violent emotions, of which extreme
awe was perhaps the least terrible, the
least consuming. The corpse, I re¬
peat, stirred, and now more vigorous¬
ly than before. The hues of life
dushed up with unwonted energy
into the countenance—the limbs re¬
laxed—and, save that the eyelids
were yet pressed heavily together, and
the bandages and draperies of the
'rave still imparted their charnel
character to the figure, I might have
dreamed that Rowena had indeed
haken off, utterly, -the fetters of
Death. But if this idea was not,
. oven then, altogether adopted, I
could at least doubt no longer, when,
arising from the bed, tottering, with
feeble steps, with closed eyes, and
with the manner of one bewildered in
a dream, the thing that was en¬
shrouded advanced bodily and pal¬
pably into the middle of the apart¬
ment.

I trembled not—I stirred not—
for a crowd of unutterable fancies
connected with the air, the stature,
the demeanor of the figure, rushing

hurriedly through my brain, had par¬
alyzed—had chilled me into stone. I
stirred not—but gazed upon the ap¬
parition. There was a mad disorder
in my thoughts—a tumult unappeas¬
able. Could it, indeed, be the living
Rowena who confronted me? Could
it indeed be Rowena at aU —the fair¬
haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena
Trevanion of Tremaine? Why, why
should I doubt it? The bandage lay
heavily about the mouth—but then
might it not be the mouth of the
breathing Lady of Tremaine? And
the cheeks—there were the roses as in
her noon of life—yes, these might in¬
deed be the fair cheeks of the living
lady of Tremaine. And the chin,
with its dimples, as in health, might
it not be her?—but had she then
grown taller since her malady? What
inexpressible madness seized me with
that thought ? One bound, and I had
reached her feet! Shrinking from my
touch, she let fall from her head the
ghastly cerements which had confined
it, and there streamed, forth, into the
rushing atmosphere of the chamber,
huge masses of long and disheveled
hair; it was hlacker than the raven
wings of midnight! And now slowly
opened the eyes of the figure which
stood before me. “Here then, at
least,” I shrieked aloud, “can I
never—can I never be mistaken—
these are the full, and the black and
the wild eyes—of my lost love—of
the Lady — of the Lady Ligeia.”

I T WAS a dark and stormy night.” How many authors there are who
think that a weird story must plunge at once into a description of a
storm! In six out of the first ten manuscripts opened by the editor this
morning, the first lines harp upon the weather. Here are the openings, verba¬
tim: 1. ‘‘A searing tongue of lightning quivered over the black heavens and
the crash of thunder that followed reverberated with such violence that the
earth trembled underfoot. ” 2. “ The night was stormy, lightning was slashing
through the dismal skies.” 3. “It was a night of cold, tempestuous rage.
Prom a velvet sky of Stygian dark the wild winds howled, ’ ’ etc. 4. ‘ ‘ The rain
was coming down in torrents. Headlights of machines as they flashed by, cast
their weird lights upon a drenched world; it was truly a rotten night.” 5.
“The night was bleak and wintry. The wind moaned through the naked
treetops like a lost spirit.” 6. “It was night, dark and raining, and something
had to be done. ’ !

Why is this? Must the heavens growl and weep to make a weird tale?
Are the stories in this issue any the less weird because not one of them begins
with a weather report ? The weather is a useful topic, when one has nothing
else to talk about; but unless it is vitally important to the story, a discussion
of the weather is as banal in a weird tale as it is in ordinary conversation.
Yet an amazingly large proportion of the manuscripts received in the editor’s
mail discuss the weather in the very first line. The winds howl in fury, and
shriek like lost demons; the thunder crashes; the rain pours down in torrents.
And the trees toss their tortured limbs—indeed one might think the stories had
all been written by the same hand, for they sound so much alike. Such open¬
ings are as familiar in the editorial rooms of Weird Tales as the trite “Men
think that I am mad, but wait, let me tell my story and judge for yourself”—
a type of story opening that has been used by amateurs a thousand times since
Poe set the style in The Tell-tale Heart.

The September issue of Weird Tales seems to have made a distinct hit
with you, the readers. The comment has been almost uniformly enthusiastic.

Writes Michael H. Sweetman of Calhan, Colorado: “I have read Weird
Tales for two years, and think the September is the best issue yet. It is by
far the most interesting magazine published today. Jumbee has my vote for
the best story in the September issue. It is so real that I can not think it a
work of imagination. Was it an actual experience? Across Space promises
to be a wonderful story. ’ ’

‘ ‘ Three cheers for the September Weird Tales, ’ ’ writes Ross L. Bralley,
of Independence, Kansas. “It is full of thrills from page to page. Across

715

716

WEIRD TALES

Space is a dandy, and it is not beyond the possibility of such things happen¬
ing. The Bird of Space is another whiz. I am enthusiastic in my approval
of your stories of planets and cosmic space, and hope you will give us more
of them. There is one thing I as a reader would add, namely: heretofore the
supposed inhabitants of other worlds have been described as more or less
human, but I would like to have someone create a new theme in which these
inhabitants are anything but human, giving them as much unearthliness as
possible. The human resemblance makes them seem too much of this earth.”

Joe D. Thomas, of St. Louis, votes against The Bird of Space on the
grounds that it is really a continued story masquerading as a complete short
story: “If this isn’t a serial,” he writes, “then I’m a green-eyed monkey.”
Miss Beatrice Cookney, of Oakland, California, comments as follows on the
same story: “The Bird of Space, I think, is the best story you have ever
printed. I am waiting anxiously for the sequel. I only hope we can have
more like it by the same author.”

Harry E. Balch, of Blaine, Washington, protests against Greye La
Spina’s serial story, Fettered, because it is “based on ridiculous superstitions;
the story might have been good, but such trash as a cat jumping over a dead
man is too rank to be considered as a good weird story. Seabury Quinn’s
stories are always the best in the book, and no matter what any weak-nerved
readers may say, his House of Horror was very good. Some of the readers
complained that the story was ‘ugly and horrible.’ When I finished that
story all I could do was marvel at the power of Seabury Quinn’s pen—that
story was not too horrible, it was just right—just the kind of story the real
lover of weird tales likes. For a final word, I wish Weird Tales would not
publish any more stories that put forth superstition as truth, as does
Fettered.”

Greye La Spina’s serial, however, seems to have won a firm hold on the
affections of the readers, for the comment has been almost entirely favorable
—and most of it enthusiastic in commendation of the story.

Writes Albert Elmo Morgareidge, of St. Louis: “There is only one
drawback to your magazine, you do not publish enough stories, and we have
to wait so long for the next issue. But as long as you have some of Seabury
Quinn’s Jules de Grandin stories, we can stand a long wait, for they are
worth the purchase price of the magazine, alone. But as a printer by trade,
and a newspaper man, I will add that The Night Wire was the best story
in the September issue.”

The showing made by The Night Wire, by H. F. Arnold, in the voting
was one of the agreeable surprizes in the balloting for favorite story in the-
September issue. This story was only a four-page “filler” story, buried in
the magazine without even an illustration, yet it drew so many votes that it
ranks right behind the three leaders in popularity with the readers. The
Night Wire is the type of utterly “different” story that we are always looking
for, the type that causes the editor to chortle with glee when he gets one in
the day’s mail. And such utterly bizarre and “different” stories are as
nectar and ambrosia to the reader who is sated with the humdrum magazine
fare of today.

Writes E. Hoffmann Price, author of The Peacock’s Shadow in this issue:
“Your September number presents some interesting types which move me to
comment. Two interplanetary stories in succession should keep the Schlossel
fans from gnashing their teeth! The Easter Island atmosphere of the serial
is distinctly novel. I have often wondered, as has most of the world, at the

THE EYRIE

717

outlandish faces of those mysterious statues; so be sure I shall anticipate the
author’s further revelations. His work in spots appealed to me as quite
colorful. The pleasing personality of de Grandin is welcome as ever. Sea-
bury Quinn does well to continue with the likable Frenchman. Plot and
technique may at times skate on thin ice, but trust to the doctor to slide it
across with his usual elan. And then come two who defy analysis: Lovecraft,
and the Rev. Mr. Whitehead. Irrespective of subject, of plot or lack of plot,
their respective styles alone distinguish them. The former draws heavy and
merited applause from your readers; but it seems to me, judging from The
Eyrie, that the latter’s suave, graceful simplicity and elegance of style is not
receiving its just portion of general recognition. ”

Margaret Harper, of Claymont, Delaware, writes to The Eyrie: “Weird
Tales is certainly the most entertaining magazine I have ever chanced upon,
and I don’t. believe it could be improved upon. I saw it for the first time on
a news stand last April, and don’t intend to miss an issue as long as it is
published, which I hope will be a long time. I select Ancient Fires by Sea-
bury Quinn as the best story in the September issue, and second to that is
The Bird of Space; that is truly a weird and wonderful story, and I wouldn’t
miss the sequel for anything. Greye La Spina’s serial is developing thrilling-
ly, with fresh horrors and surprizes. That new serial, Across Space, is great!
Those awful weird creatures in that volcano! All the stories in the September
issue are deserving of special mention.”

Kenneth Overton, of Port Arthur, Texas, writes to The Eyrie: “I have
been an ardent reader of Weird Tales since the first edition, and I can
truthfully say that they are the best stories I have ever read—and I read a
good deal.”

What is your favorite story in this issue? Your three favorites in the
September number were The Bird of Space, by Everil Worrell; part one of
Across Space, by Edmond Hamilton, and Ancient Fires, Seabury Quinn’s
story of reincarnation.

MY FAVORITE STORIES IN THE NOVEMBER WEIRD TALES
ARE:

Story Remarks

( 1 )-

( 2 )-

( 3 )-

I do not like the following stories:

(1) _ Why? _

( 2 ) - -

It will help us to know what kind of
stories you want in Weird Tales if you
will fill out this coupon and mail it to
The Eyrie. Weird Tales, 450 E. Ohio St.,
Chicago, Ill.

Reader’s name and address:

718

WEIRD TALES

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SONG POEM WRITERS

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The Peacock's
Shadow

(Continued from page 596)
and the two; by intuition. Very
simple, n’est-ce pas?

“And this Santiago,” continued
the old man, “wore on the pommel of
his sword a peacock; as also did
Monsieur the Marquis on that sword
at his chateau. None of which really
proved anything; however, I began to
think. Thus it was but a matter of
having you watched, Mademoiselle,
until things happened.

“And while you watched, mon
vieux, I prowled around, and found
the plans of Vauban’s fortifications
and engineering works, and saw that
he had not built the passage leading
to St. Leon. And as for last night, I
attended the preliminary rites, hav¬
ing, as you so nicely put it, beaned
one of the worshipers and assumed
his costume.”

“What the devil! You joined in
their ceremonies?”

“Yes. It was I who spoke to you;
but you did not take the tumble, so
you missed some rare sport. I had
but to put myself into the case which
had contained the embalmed body of
my ancient enemy, Santiago. And
thus they carried me into position at
the altar. Then, at the crucial mo¬
ment, I kicked off the cover, and fired
a press photographer’s flashlight gun.
Dazzled by that fearful light, they
could see nothing. As for me, I closed
my eyes as I fired, and then, after the
flash. .

He affectionately caressed the
blackjack.

“And with this wonderful little
implement, I worked them over, as
you might say it, while they still
blinked and rubbed their eyes, utterly
blinded by that sudden flare.”

“He really was going to kill me?”
queried the queen of Lachepaillet,
(Continued on page 720)

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(Continued from, page 718)
who had scarcely grasped the entire
sequence of events, and their signifi¬
cance.

* ‘ Exactly that, chere petite. In his
way, he loved you, for yourself, and
for the sake of his departed sweet¬
heart; and therefore he was to sacri¬
fice you, and embalm you, and set
you up in state, in the mummy case of
a princess, thus performing the su¬
preme penance, making his peace with
the Lord Peacock, and with Santiago
alike. An artistic soul, Monsieur the
Marquis! He is leaving for Spain.

. unless unhappily I struck him too
hard! But he will not annoy you
again.”

‘ ‘ These uncanny resemblances,
Monsieur d’Artois. . . it is all so
fantastic,” suggested Lili. “I re¬
semble his former mistress, and I re¬
semble a mummy. Am I then a mere -
shadow?”

“That is really not so incredible.
For you, Mademoiselle, are the niece
of her whom Monsieur the Marquis
loved twenty years ago; so that that
resemblance is not at all a subject of
wonder, even if extraordinary. This,
however, he did not know, nor I
either, until I investigated! nor did
you know. As for the mummy, well,
coincidence. . . and a stretch of

fancy.”

“But your duel. Pierre, at St.
Leon?”

“Who knows? Illusion. . . a

stranger from Kurdistan. .. I at¬
tempt no explanation. Santiago is
dead, even as may be the marquis and
some of his followers; but the
Stranger still lives, and the Peacock’s
shadow still hangs over us.”

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Next Month

The

Metal Giants

By EDMOND HAMILTON

H uge metal monsters striding
toward Wheeling and Pitts¬
burgh, shooting poison-gas miles
ahead of them, crashing through
villages and trampling out lives in
their resistless march—the shat¬
tered army of the United States in
full retreat before the invincible
menace—the people of West Vir¬
ginia and southern Pennsylvania
fleeing for their lives—foreign gov¬
ernments offering military aid to
this country in a hopeless effort to
save civilization.

T he story of a Frankenstein, of
a creation that rebelled against
its creator and threatened the de¬
struction of the entire human race
—a powerful weird-scientific tale
by the author of “Across Space.”
The story will be printed complete

In the

December Issue of

WEIRD TALES

The Unique Magazine

On Sale November 1

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